Classic Poem

Love's like a game at Tables, where the die
Of maids' affection doth by fortune fly;
Which, when you think you're surest of the same,
Proves but at best a doubtful after-game;
For if they find your fancy in a blot,
It's two to one if then they take you not,
But, being gam'sters, you must boldly venture,
And when you see the point lie open, enter.
Believe me one thing, — nothing brings about
A game half lost so soon as holding out;
And next to holding out, this you shall find,
There's nothing worse than entering still behind.
Yet doth not all in happy entrance lie
When you are in, you must throw strong and high.
If you throw low and weak, believe me then,
Do what you can, they will be bearing men;
And if you look not all the better on,
They will play foul, — bear two instead of one.