Songs

Love is a bable,
No man is able
To say ’tis this or ’tis that;
So full of passions
Of sundry fashions,
’Tis like I cannot tell what.

Love’s fair in cradle,
Foul in fable,
’Tis either too cold or too hot;
An arrant liar,
Fed by desire,
It is and yet it is not.

Love is a fellow
Clad oft in yellow,
The canker-worm of the mind,
A privy mischief,
And such a sly thief
No man knows which way to find.

Love is a wonder
That’s here and yonder,
As common to one as to moe;
A monstrous cheater,
Ev’ry man’s debtor;
Hang him and so let him go.