Classic Poem

A QUARRELI WITH LOUE

O H that I could write a story
Of Loues dealing with affection:
How hee makes the spirit sory,
That is toucht with his infection.

But he doth so closely winde him
In the plaits of will ill pleased,
That the heart can neuer finde him
Till it be too much diseased.

Tis a subtill kinde of spirit,
Of a venome kinde of nature;
That can like a conny ferret,
Creepe vnwares vpon a creature.

Neuer eye that can beholde it,
Though it worketh first by seeing;
Nor conceipt that can vnfolde it,
Though in thoughts be all his being.

Oh it maketh olde men witty,
Young men wanton, women idle;
While that Patience weepes, for pitty
Reason bitts not Natures bridle.

In it selfe it hath no substance,
Yet is working worlds of wonder;
While in phrensies fearfull instance
Wit and sense are put asunder.

What it is, is in coniecture,
Seeking much, but nothing finding;
Like to Fancies architecture,
With illusions Reason blinding.

Day and night it neuer resteth,
Mocking Fancy with ill fortune;
While the spirit it molesteth,
That doth patience still importune.

Yet for all this, how to finde it
Tis vnpossible to showe it;
When the Muse that most doth minde it
Will be furthest off to know it.

Yet can Beauty so reteine it
In the profit of her seruice,
That she closely can mainteine it
For her seruant chiefe in office.

In her eye she chiefely breedes it;
In her cheekes she chiefely hides it;
In her seruants faith shee feedes it
While his only heart abides it.

All his humour is in changing
All his work is in inuention
All his pleasure is in ranging,
All his truthe but in intention.

Straunge in all effectes conceiued,
But, in substance, nothing sounded;
While the senses are deceiued,
That on idle thoughts are grounded.

Not to dwell vpon a trifle,
That doth Follies hope befall;
Tis but a newe nothing nifle,
Made for fooles to play withall.