Labour in vaine. OR An imperfect description of Love.
Imperfect I well call it may,
For who can all Loves parts display?
To a dainty new tune, called
Ienkinson.
FIe vpon loue, fond loue,
false loue,
Great are the torments
that Louers endure:
It is a snare, brings care,
bones bare,
None can a remedy
for it procure:
Of all the afflictions
that are incident
To vs while we march
vnder Times regiment,
There's nothing to man
brings so much discontent
as loue vnbeloued againe.
It breaketh our sleep,
it distracteth the wit,
It makes vs doe things
that for men are vnfit:
If I may but giue
It a true censure on it,
shall be call'd
Labour in vaine.
Loue is a fire, hot fire,
fierce fire,
Who can abide
the extremity on't!
It burnes the reines, great pains,
small gaines
Shall a man get
after beauty to hunt:
Tis that which the learned
by right doe name
(As I doe coniecture)
the Idalean flame,
Jove grant that I neuer
doe féele the same.
so néer as I can Ile refrain:
Yet if the blind rascall
at me shall shoot,
I know to withstand him
it were no boot,
Both young men and maidens
with you look to't,
For this is right
Labour in vain.
Loue is a well, déepe well,
stéep well,
No man can sound
its profundity right:
The water in't, melts
[...]int
sets stint
Both to the Pesant,
the Lord, and the Knight:
It is Aganipe,
or Helicon,
It giues him inuention
that erst had none:
It yéelds enough matter
to worke vpon
For euery illiterate swaine:
Tis like to that water
where
Tantalus stood,
A man may be staru'd
among plenty of food,
I had rather taste of
the coole running flood,
Then drink at this
Labour in vain.
The second part,
To the same tune.
LOue is a hill, high hill,
great hill,
No man ere climb'd
to the top of the same:
He that aspires, it tyres,
with bryers
It is inuironed
wilde men to tame.
Tis that against which
poore
Sisiphus strives
To roule up a stone,
which downward driues,
This restlesse foyle
costs many mens liues,
& few by the iourney do gain:
The paths are so difficult
to find out,
The best Cosmographer
his skill may doubt,
Twill daunt him if he
thinks himselfe most stout,
And this is right
Labour in vain.
Loue is a chaine, strong chaine,
long chaine,
He who is bound in it
seldome gets free,
Twill hold him fast, till th'last,
houre's past,
Though strong as
Hector,
or
Aiax he be,
Tis that wherewith lusty
Aleides bound
The thrée headed
Cerberus,
that hell-hound,
When he did Don
Plutoes
power confound,
and got
Proserpina againe.
Tis that where with
Sampson,
by'th Philistims was
Bound to the mill
where he ground like an asse:
Tis stronger then iron,
stéele, or brasse,
And this is call'd
Labour in vain.
Loue is a whéele, round whéele,
swift whéele,
Which when tis turning
none's able to stop:
In circle wise, it flyes,
and hyes
Swiftly to bring
what was lowest to'th top:
Tis that which vnfortunate
Ixion turnes,
While at his nere ending
labour he mournes,
The axletrée of it
perpetually burnes,
because it no liquor can gaine:
In briefe, Loue is any thing
that's without rest,
A passion that boileth
and scaldeth the breast,
Yet he who loues lou'd againe
(so all this jest)
Dwelsr not at the
Labour in vain.
M. P.
Finis.
Printed at London for Thomas Lambert.