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A Sonnet.
WHy do we love these things which we call women,
Which are like feathers, blown in every wind?
Regarding least those men do most esteem them;
And most deceitfull when they seem most kind,
And all their Vertue, that their beautie graces,
It is but painted, like unto their faces.
Their greatest glory is in rich attire,
Which is extracted from some hopefull heires,
Whose witts and wealth are lent to their desire,
When they regard the gifts, more then the givers:
And to increase their hopes of future bliss,
They'l sometimes rack their Conscience for a kisse.
Some love the windes, that bring in golden showers,
And some are meerly won with commendations,
Some love and hat••, and all within two houres,
And that's a fault amongst them most in fashion,
But put them all within a scale together,
Their worth in weight will scarce pull down a feather.
And yet I would not discommend them all,
If I did know some worth to be in any,
'Tis strange, that since the time of Adams fall,
That God did make none good, yet made so many:
And if he did, for these I truly mourne,
Because they dy'de before that I was borne.