LADY MARY WROTH

Love, a child, is ever crying; Please him, and he straight is flying; Give him, he the more is craving, Never satisfied with having. His desires have no measure; Endless folly is his treasure; What he promiseth he breaketh; Trust not one word that he speaketh. He vows nothing but false matter; And to cozen you will flatter; Let him gain the hand, he’ll leave you And still glory to deceive you. He will triumph in your wailing; And yet cause be of your failing: These his virtues are, and slighter Are his gifts, his favours lighter. Feathers are as firm in staying; Wolves no fiercer in their preying; As a child then, leave him crying; Nor seek him so given to flying.