A Poem describing the leuitie of a woman

First I feare not to offend,
A very thing of nothing,
Yet whom thus farre I commend,
She's lighter then her clothing:
Nay from the foote vnto the crowne,
Her very Fan will weigh her downe:
And marke how all things with her Sexe agree,
For all her vertues are as light as she.

She chats and chants but ayre,
A windie vertue for the eare,
T'is lighter farre then care,
And yet her songs do burthens beare.

She dances, that's but mouing,
No heauie vertue here she changes,
And as her heart in louing,
So her feete in constant ranges.

She softly leanes on strings,
She strikes the trembling lute and quauers:
These are nō weigntie things,
Her strokes are light, so are her fauours.
Those are her vertues fitting to her kind,
No sooner showne, but they turnd all to wind.

Then to you, O Sexe of fethers,
On whose browes sit all the wethers,
I send my Passion weau'd in rimes,
To weigh downe these light emptie times.