Who so attempts to publish and display,
Of Cupids thrals the strange & awkward fits,
Doth seeke to count the sand amidst the Sea,
And wades beyond the compasse of his wits:
Whose griping greefes and passions to disclose,
Is to describe a world of care and woes.
More easie its to weild the weightie charge,
That Atlas hath in bearing vp the Skies:
Then to vnfolde, and picture out at large,
The vncouth cares in louers brests that lies.
Whose rest is toyle, whose ioy is endlesse greife,
They often sue, but seeldome finde releefe.
Yf Plutoes denne that vgly pit of hell,
Great griesly plague, and tormentes hath in store:
I dare auouch that those in loue which dwell,
Do tast them all, and twice as many more.
Which makes mee say, & not without good cause,
Thrice happlesse wights, that yeelde to Cupids lawes.
As Aetna hill doth belke forth flakes of fire,
And hydeous sounds are harde within the same:
So Louers burne through inwarde hot desire,
And hollow sighes burst out amidst the flame:
Whose scorched harts dispaire and anguish gnaw
Lyke greedy Gripes, that peck Prometheus maw.
In mirth they moane, yet smile amidst their woe,
In fire they freese, in frost they fry straightway:
Swift legges to runne, yet are not able goe,
Such is the state, in which poore Louers stay:
As houering hope dooth hoyst them vp on hye,
Feare clips their wings, so that they cannot flye.
They fayne in hell, one only plague to fall,
For iust reuendge to those that doe amisse:
But they that loue, are subiect to them all,
And neuer feele one lightning howre of blisse:
That (to conclude) thrice happy is their chaunce,
That neuer knew to treade the louers daunce.