Page [unnumbered]
Vpon Sinetes Passions.
AH Loue, fond loue, false loue, deceitfu loue,
Vnkinde, vnto the kinde, to frend a foe:
A Tirant, loyall louers doe thee proue,
And faithfull hartes, thou fillest full of woe.
Ah blind loue: bliud, but not in woūding blind,
Yea blind for why? thy frends thou dost not see,
Those which resist, thou lika a childe dost flee,
But they which yeilde thrise man-like do thee finde,
Still, Still a boy, delightinge still to playe,
What play? to slaye, what kinde of play is this:
Soe plaies the hungrye hauke, with taken praye:
So playes the wilie Catte with captiue Mise.
Sinetes mournfull Muse doth this descrie,
His haples hapes my plaints doe iustifie.
The bloudie beare, which rangeth in the wood,
Doth cease to rage, when that shee hath her fill:
The hungry woolf, which oft is bath'd in bloud,
When greedie paunch is glutted leaues to kill.
But Cupide, whom men call the god of loue,
(Vniustly call: nay, doe most iustly call:
For why, he loues to kill, whom? those which loue)
He dayly kills, & is not fild at all.
What thinge is rare? to see a Tirant olde,