To cloak a poor desire
Under a rich array,
Nor to aspire by Vice,
Though ’twere the quicker way.
From Robert Jones’ Second Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
Love is a bable,
Love’s fair in the cradle,
Foul in the fable,
’Tis either too cold or too hot;
An arrant liar,
Fed by desire,
It is and yet it is not.
Love is a fellow
Clad oft in yellow,[10]
The canker-worm of the mind,
A privy mischief,
And such a sly thief
No man knows which way to find.
Love is a wonder
That’s here and yonder,
As common to one as to moe;
A monstrous cheater,
Every man’s debtor;
Hang him and so let him go.
[10] The colour of jealousy.
From John Wilbye’s Second Set of Madrigals, 1609.
Love not me for comely grace,