True Love findes witt, but he whose witt doth move Him to love, confesses he doth not love: And from his witt, passions and true desire Are forc'd as hard, as from the flint is fire. My love's all fire whose flames my soule do nurse, Whose smokes are sighes; whose every sparke's a verse. Doth measure women win? Then I know why Most of our Ladies with the Scotts doe lie. A Scott is measur'd in each syllable, terse And smooth as a verse: and like that smooth verse Is shallow, and wants matter, but in his handes, And they are rugged; Her state better standes Whom dauncing measures tempted, not the Scott: In brief she's out of measure, lost, soe gott. Greene-sickness wenches, (not needes must but) may Looke pale, breathe short; at Court none so long stay. Good witt ne're despair'd there, or @3Ay me@1 said: For never Wench at Court was ravished. And shee but cheates on Heaven, whom you so winne, Thinking to share the sport, but not the sinne. |