Silly Boy, there is no cause
Why any lad, that will go love,
Curse or Cupid or his laws
If that his lass inconstant prove:
Though she do sail with every wind,
Yet that 's no fault in womankind;
That heinous sin
Thou think'st her in
Thou shalt in thine own bosom find.

They that go to Cupid's mart
To gain a heart, a heart do give;
Not thine own but hers thou art,
Thy soul within her breast doth live.
Though she be then as bold and bad
As ever fame or story had,
Do not exclaim
'Tis thine own shame;
Her frailty to thy follies add.

Nor adventure thou to name
The goodness thine thou hap'st to show;
Think but where thou hadst the same—
The tree whereon such fruit does grow,
Which if thou cherish, prune and fence,
She cannot but in tender sense
Do so for thine
And strive to fine
Thy native ill, to innocence.

Here is then the only way
To keep thy love for ever sure:
Keep her heart in thee does stay,
And she will thine, for ever pure.
Happy turtles, heartening so
Each other's truth which both do show
And just alike,
On virtue strike,
As two true clocks together go.