Is love such pinching pain to them that prove?
And hath he skill to make so excellent,
Yet hath so little skill to bridle love?
HOB. Colin thou kenst, the southern shepheard's boy;
Him Love hath wounded with a deadly dart:
Whilome on him was all my care and joy,
Forcing with gifts to win his wanton heart.
But now from me his madding mind is start,
And wooes the widow's daughter of the glen;
So now fair Rosalind hath bred his smart;