Classic Poem

Love mistres is of many myndes,
Yet fewe know whome they serve;
They recken least how little love
Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the witt,
The sence from reason's lore;
She is delightfull in the ryne,
Corrupted in the core.

She shroudeth Vice in Vertue's veyle,
Pretendinge good in ill;
She offreth joy, affordeth greife,
A kisse, where she doth kill.

A honye-shoure raynes from her lippes,
Sweete lightes shyne in her face;
She hath the blushe of virgin mynde,
The mynde of viper's race.

She makes thee seeke yet feare to finde,
To finde but not enjoye;
In many frowns some glydinge smyles
She yeldes, to more annoye.

She woes thee to come nere her fire,
Yet doth she drawe it from thee;
Farr off she makes thy harte to frye,
And yet to freese within thee.

She letteth fall some luringe baytes,
For fooles to gather upp;
To sweete, to soure, to every taste
She tempereth her cupp.

Softe soules she bindes in tender twist,
Small flyes in spynner's webb;
She setts afloate some luring streames,
But makes them soone to ebb.

Her watery eies have burninge force,
Her fluddes and flames conspire;
Teares kindle sparkes, sobbes fuell are,
And sighes do blowe her fier.

May never was the month of love,
For May is full of floures;
But rather Aprill, wett by kinde,
For love is full of showers.

Like tyran, crewell woundes she gives,
Like surgeon, salve she lends;
But salve and sore have equall force,
For death is both their ends.

With soothing wordes enthrallèd soules
She cheynes in servile bandes;
Her eye in silence hath a speeche
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweete hath many soures;
Short happ immortall harmes;
Her loving lookes are murdring darts,
Her songes, bewitchinge charmes.

Like Winter rose and Summer yce,
Her joyes are still untymelye;
Before her hope, behinde remorse,
Fayre first, in fyne unseemely.

Moodes, passions, phancies, jelious fitts,
Attend uppon her trayne;
She yeldeth rest without repose,
A heaven in hellish payne.

Her house is sloth, her dore deceite,
And slippery hope her staires;
Unbashfull bouldnes bidds her guestes,
And every Vice repayres.

Her diett is of such delightes
As please, till they be past;
But then, the poyson kills the hart
That did entise the tast.

Her sleepe in synne doth end in wrath,
Remorse rings her awake;
Death calls her upp, Shame drives her out,
Despayres her uppshott make.

Plowe not the seas, sowe not the sands,
Leave off your idle payne;
Seeke other mistres for your myndes,
Love's service is in vayne.