ROSALYNDE
Love’s wantons arme their traitrous suits with
teares,
With vowes, with oathes, with lookes, with
showers of golde: But when the fruite of their affectes appeares, The simple heart by subtill sleights is solde.
Thus suckes the yeelding eare the poysoned bait, Thus feedes the hart upon his endlesse harmes,
Thus glut the thoughts themselves on selfe
deceipt,
Thus blinde the eyes their sight by subtill
charmes.
The lovely lookes, the sighs that storme so sore, The dew of deepe dissembled doublenesse: These may attempt, but are of power no more, Where beautie leanes to wit and soothfastnesse.
Oh Rosader then be thou wittifull,
For Rosalynde scornes foolish pittifull.