Classic Poem

There is no worldly pleasure here below
Which by experience doth not folly prove,
But among all the follies that I know,
The sweetest folly in the world is Love.

But not that passion, which by fools' consent,
Above the reason bears imperious sway,
Making their lifetime a perpetual Lent,
As if a man were born to fast and pray.

No! that is not the humour I approve,
As either yielding pleasure or promotion;
I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love,
Altho' I do not like it in devotion.

For it hath no coherence with my creed,
To think that lovers die as they pretend;
If all that say they die, had died indeed,
Sure long ere now the world had had an end.

Besides, we need not love but if we please,
No destiny can force man's disposition,
And how can any die of that disease,
Whereof himself may be his own physician?

But some seem so distracted of their wits,
That I would think it but a venial sin,
To take some of these innocents that sit
In Bedlam out, and put some lovers in.

Yet some men, rather than incur the slander
Of true apostates, will false martyrs prove;
But I am neither Iphis nor Leander,
I'll neither drown nor hang myself for love.

Methinks a wise man's actions should be such
As always yield to reason's best advice,
Now for to love too little, or too much,
Are both extremes, and all extremes are vice.

Yet have I been a lover by report,
Yea, I have died for love as others do,
But praised be God, it was in such a sort,
That I revived within an hour or two.

Thus have I liv'd, thus have I lov'd till now,
And found no reason to repent me yet,
And whosoever otherwise will do,
His courage is as little as his wit.