Classic Poem

A Womans looks
Are barbed hooks,
That catch by art
The strongest hart
When yet they spend no breath,
But let them speake
& sighing break,
Forth into teares,
Their words are speares
Y t wound our souls to death.

The rarest wit
Is made forget,
And like a child
Is oft beguild,
With loues sweete seeming baite:
Loue with his rod
So like a God,
Commands the mind,
We cannot find
Faire shewes hide fowle deceit.

Time that all thinges
In order bringes,
Hath taught me now
To be more slow,
In giuing faith to speech:
Since womens wordes
No truth affordes,
And when they kisse
They thinke by this,
Vs men to ouer-reach.