Classic Poem

Who sowes the sand? or ploughs the easie shore?
Or strives in nets to prison in the winde?
Yet I, (fond I) more fond, and senselesse more,
Thought in sure love a womans thoughts to binde.
Fond, too fond thoughts, that thought in love to tie
One more inconstant then inconstancie!

Look as it is with some true April day,
Whose various weather stores the world with flowers;
The sunne his glorious beams doth fair display,
Then rains, and shines again, and straight it lowres,
And twenty changes in one houre doth prove;
So, and more changing is a womans love.

Or as the hairs which deck their wanton heads,
Which loosely fly, and play with every winde,
And with each blast turn round their golden threads;
Such as their hair, such is their looser minde:
The difference this, their hair is often bound;
But never bonds a woman might impound.

False is their flattering colour, false and fading;
False is their flattering tongue; false every part:
Their hair is forg'd, their silver foreheads shading;
False are their eyes, but falsest is their heart:
Then this in consequence must needs ensue;
All must be false, when every part's untrue.

Fond then my thoughts, which thought a thing so vain!
Fond hopes, that anchour on so false a ground!
Fond love, to love what could not love again!
Fond heart, thus fir'd with love, in hope thus drown'd!
Fond thoughts, fond heart, fond hope; but fondest I,
To grasp the winde, and love inconstancie!