The Poet loves a Mistresse, but not to marry.

I Do not love to wed,
Though I do like to wooe;
And for a maidenhead
Ile beg, and buy it too.

Ile praise, and Ile approve
Those maids that never vary;
And fervently Ile love;
But yet I would not marry.

Ile hug, Ile kisse, Ile play,
And Cock-like Hens Ile tread:
And sport it any way;
But in the Bridall Bed:

For why? that man is poore,
Who hath but one of many;
But crown'd he is with store,
That single may have any.

Why then, say, what is he
(To freedome so unknown)
Who having two or three,
Will be content with one?