Why do we love these things which we call women,
Which are like feathers blown with every wind,
Regarding least those which do most esteem them,
And most deceitful when they seem most kind;
And all the virtue that their beauty graces,
It is but painted like unto their faces?

Their greatest glory is in rich attire,
Which is extracted from some hopeful livers
Whose wits and wealth are bent to their desire,
When they regard the gift more than the givers;
And to increase their hopes of future bliss,
They 'll sometimes stretch their conscience for a kiss.

Some love the winds that bring in golden flowers,
And some are merely won with commendation;
Some love and hate, and all within two hours,
And that 's a fault amongst them most in fashion;
But put them all within a scale together,
Their worth in weight will scarce pull down a feather.

And yet I would not discommend them all,
If I did know some worth to be in any;
'Tis strange, that since the time of Adam's fall,
That God did make none good, and made so many;
And if he did, for those I truly mourn,
Because they died before that I was born.