A rebuke to vaine louers.

WHy art thou bounde, that maiest bee free,
Shall reason yeeld, to ragyng will:
Is thraldome like, to libertee,
Wilt thou exchange, the good for ill.
Then must thou learne, a childishe plaie,
And of eche smart, to taste and proue,
When lookers on, shall iudge and saie:
Loe this is he, that u's by loue.

Thy witts with thought, shall stande at staies,
Thyne hedde shall haue, but heauie rest:
Thyne eyes shall watche, for wanton waies,
Thy tongue shall showe, thy harts request.
Thyne ears shall heare, a thousande naies,
Thyne hande shall put thy penne to paine:
But in the ende, thou shalt dispraise,
Thy life so spent, for sutche small gaine.

First cast the care, and count the coste,
And waie what fraude, in loue is founde:
Then after come, and make thy boste,
And showe some cause, why thou art bounde.
When that the wine, hath ronne full lowe,
Thou shalt be glad, to drinke the lyes:
And basse the fleshe, full oft I knowe,
That hath been blowne, with many flyes.

If loue and luste, might neuer cope,
And youth might ronne, in measures race,
Or if long suite, might winne sure hope,
I would lesse blame, a louers cace.
But loue is greate, with hotte desire,
And sweete delite, maks youth so fonde:
That little sparks, doe proue greate fire,
And bryngs free harts, to endlesse bonde.

We se where greate deuotion is,
The people creepe, and kisse the crosse:
Wherefore I finde, lesse faute with this,
Though fondlyngs gilde, a bridells bosse.
The foole his bable will not change,
Not for the scepter of a kyng:
A louers life, is nothyng strange,
For yong men seeks no other thyng.