Classic Poem

Some love for wealth and some for hue,
And none of both these loves are true;
For when the mill hath lost her sailes,
Then must the miller lose his vailes:
Of grass comes hay,
And flowers faire will soon decay:
Of ripe comes rotten,
In age all beautie is forgotten.

Some love too high and some too lowe,
And of them both great griefs do growe;
And some do love the common sort,
And common folk use common sport.
Look not too high,
Lest that a chip fall in thine eye:
But high or lowe,
Ye may be sure she is a shrewe.

But, sirs, I use to tell no tales,
Each fish that swims doth not bear scales;
In every hedge I find not thornes,
Nor every beast doth carry hornes:
I say not soe,
That every woman causeth woe.
That were too broad:
Who loves not venom must shun the toad.

Who useth still the truth to tell,
May blamed be, though he say well;
Say crow is white, and snow is black,
Lay not the fault on woman's back:
Thousands were good,
But few scap'd drowning in Noe's flood:
Most are well bent,
I must say so, lest I be spent.