Love mistress is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serve;
They reckon least how little hope
Their service doth deserve.
The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.
* * * * *
May never was the month of love;
For May is full of flowers:
But rather April, wet by kind;
For love is full of showers.
With soothing words, inthralled souls
She chains in servile bands!
Her eye in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.
Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap, immortal harms
Her loving looks are murdering darts,
Her songs bewitching charms.
Like winter rose, and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely;
Before her hope, behind remorse,
Fair first, in fine[1] unseemly.
Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,
Leave off your idle pain;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
Love's service is in vain.
[1] 'Fine:' end.