Love is a living Lowe that lurking burneth
Love is a living Lowe that lurking burneth;
'Tis wound that paineth yet ne'er taketh tent;
It is one long contented Discontent;
'Tis Dule which driving mad no Dule discerneth:
Love's Will for nothing save well-willing yearneth;
'Tis faring hermit-like in city pent;
It is a Malcontent when gained Consent;
'Tis holding greatest loss most lucre earneth;
It is the being tane with gladdest gree;
'Tis Winner serving fain the thing he won;
It is to entreat the slayer loyally.
But how can Love, with all his favour shown,
Cause in oar mortal hearts conformity
When Love is love's own foe, most fere of fone?