Oh, what a plague is love!
I cannot bear it.
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it;
It so torments my mind,
That my heart faileth.
She wavers with the wind,
As a ship saileth;
Please her the best I may,
She looks another way;
Alack and well a-day!
Phillida flouts me.
I often heard her say
That she loved posies;
In the last month of May
I gave her roses,
Cowslips and gilly flow'rs
And the sweet lily,
I got to deck the bow'rs
Of my dear Philly;
She did them all disdain,
And threw them back again;
Therefore, 'tis flat and plain
Phillida flouts me.
Which way, soe'er I go.
She still torments me;
And whatso'er I do,
Nothing contents me:
I fade, and pine away
With grief and sorrow;
I fall quite to decay,
Like any shadow;
Since 'twill no better be,
I'll bear it patiently;
Yet all the world may see
Phillida flouts me.
--_Thomas Carew_