A speciall trifle on a fickle woman.

WHen pleasure could no more desire, & will his wish had won,
When fancie past the flaming fire, and loue his race had ron:
Whe eury ioy yt hart would haue, in gladsom brest was foud
And nothing lackte that loue could craue, to salue a festred wound.
When suites were hanged on ye hedge, and plaints were out of place,
And liking great gaue faith in pledge, ye pains should purches grace:
Naie rather when the fruite was had, that growes on top of tree,
And claspyng hande tooke by good happ, the Honie from the Bee:
And eight yeres trothe was throughly tried, a proffe not comon sure,
(That any hauke the pearche would bide, or like so long on lure:)
Then fickle freaks made Hagard soer, and shakte of bells in spite,
And plainly ment to come no more, for Gill would plaie the Kite.
Her freend but past the fomyng seas, and hence a space remainde,
But Gill would needs to take her ease, for pleasure be retainde:
An other where, O iudge my freends, what wrong I suffer here,
And let the dealyngs of vs bothe, before the worlde appere.