Al earthly things by course of kind,
Are subiect still to reasons lore:
But sure I can no reasons finde,
That makes these Louers loue so sore.
They fry and freese in myldest weather,
They weepe and laugh euen both together.
Euen now in waues of deepe despaire,
Their barke is tossed too and fro.
A gale of hope expels al feare,
And makes the winde to ouerblow:
Twixt feare and hope these Louers saile,
And doubtful are which shall preuayle.
At night in slumber sweetly laide,
They seeme to holde their loue in armes:
Awaking then, they are afrayde,
And feele the force of thousand harmes.
Then doe they tosse in restlesse bed,
With hammers woorking in their head.
A merry looke from Ladies face,
Bringes them a foote which could not goe:
A frowning brow doth them disgrace,
And brues the broth of all their woe,
Hereby all men may playnely know:
That reason rules not Louers law.
But reason doth me thus persuade,
Where reason wants, that nothing frames:
Therefore this reason hath me made,
To set aside all louely gaynes.
Since reason rules not Venus sport,
No reason bids me scale that forte.