An Invective against Love

Love is a sour delight, a sugared grief,
A living death, an ever-dying life,
A breach of reason's law, a secret thief,
A sea of tears, an everlasting strife:
A bait for fools, a scourge of noble wits,
A deadly wound, a shot that ever hits.

Love is a blinded god, a wayward boy,
A labyrinth of doubts, an idle lust;
A slave to beauty's will, a witless toy,
A ravenous bird, a tyrant most unjust:
A burning heat in frost, a flattering foe,
A private hell, a very world of woe.

Yet, mighty Love, regard not what I say,
Who in a trance do lie, reft of my wits;
But blame the light that leads me thus astray,
And makes my tongue thus rave by frantic fits:
Yet hurt me not, lest I sustain the smart,
Which am content to lodge her in my heart.