Loue is the gold whose outward hew doth passe,
Whose first beginnings goodly promise make
Of pleasures faire, and fresh as Sommers grasse,
Which neither Sunne can parch, nor winde can shake:
But when the mould should in the fire be tride,
The gold is gone, the drosse doth still abide.
Beautie the flowre, so fresh, so faire, so gay,
So sweet to smell, so soft to touch and tast:
As seemes it should endure, by right, for aye,
And neuer be with any storme defast,
But when the baleful Southerne wind doth blow,
Gone is the glory which it erst did shew.
Loue is the streame, whose waues so calmely flow
As might intice mens minds to wade therein:
Loue is the poison mixt with sugar so,
As might by outward sweetnesse liking win,
But as the deepe ore'flowing stops thy breath,
So poyson once receiu'd brings certaine death.
Loue is the baite, whose taste the fish deceiues,
And makes them swallow downe the choking hooke,
Loue is the face whose fairenesse iudgement reaues,
And makes thee trust a false and fained looke.
But as the hooke the foolish fish doth kill,
So flatt'ring lookes, the louers life doth spill.
FINIS.