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HEN Love did reade the Title of my booke,

He fear'd least some had armes against
him tooke;

Suspect mee not for such a wicked thought,
Under thy colours which so oft have fought.
Some youths are oft in love, but I am ever;
And now to do the same I do persever.
I meane not to blot out what I have taught,
Nor to unwinde the web that I have wrought.
If any love, and is with love repaide,

Blest be his state! he needeth not my aide:
But if he reape scorne where he love hath sowne,
Of such it is that I take charge alone.
Why should love any unto hanging force?

When as even hate can drive them to no worse?
Why by their own hands should it cause men perish,
When it is peace alone that love doth cherish?
Il'e ease you now which taught to love before,

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The same hand which did wound shall heale the sore, The same earth, poyson'd flowres, and healthsome breeds,

The rose is often neighbour unto weeds.

To men and women both, I physicke give,

Else I but halfe the sicke world should relieve.

If any for that sexe unfitting are,

Yet they by mens example may beware:
Had wicked Scylla this my counsell read,

The golden haire had stuck to Nisus head.
Take heed, when thou dost first to like begin,
Thrust not love out, but let him not come in.
By running farre, brookes runne with greater force,
"Tis easier to hold in, then stop thy horse.
Delay, addes strength and faster hold imparts:
Delay, the blades of corne, to eares converts.
The tree which now is father to a shade,
And often head against the winde hath made,
I could at first have pluckt up with my hand,
Though the sunnes prospect now it dares withstand.
Then passions, ere they fortifie, remove,

"In short time, liking groweth to be love:"
Be provident, and so prevent thy sorrow,
Who will not do't to day, cannot to morrow.
The river which now multipli'd doth swell,
Is in his cradle but a little well.

Oft, that which when 'tis done is but a skarre,
Becomes a wound while we the cure deferre.

But in thy heart if love be firmely seated,
And hath such roote as cannot be defeated;
Although it had at first, I did not take you,
At point of death 'twere cruell to forsake you.
That fire which water never can asswage,
For want of stuffe at length must end his rage.
Whiles love is in his furious heate give place,
Delay, what counsell cannot, brings to passe.
At first his minde impatient and sore,
Doth physicke, more then the discase abhorre.
Who but a foole, a mother will forbid,

Her sonne new dead, some briny drops to shed:
When she a while hath spoke her griefe in teares,
With patience then, of patience she heares.
Out of due season who so physicke gi's,
Though it cause health, yet hath he done amisse,
And friendly counsell urged out of date,
Doth fret the sore, and cause the hearers hate.
But when loves anger seemeth to appease,
By all meanes labour to shunne idlenes:
This brings him first, this staies him and no other,
This is to Cupid both his nurse and mother.
Barre idlenesse, loves arrowes blunt will turne,
And the anflaming fire want power to burne.
"Love nere doth better entertainment finde,
Then in a desolate and empty minde."
Sloth is loves bawde, if thou wilt leave wooing,
Let still thy body, or thy minde be doing.

Full happinesse nere stop'd with rub of chance,
Ease uncontroul'd, long sleepes and dalliance,
Do wound the minde, though never pierce the skin,
And through that wound love slily creepeth in.
Then either unto bookes go make thy mone,
So shalt thou have most company alone.
Or else unto the doubtfull warres go range,
Ready, thy selfe, for honour to exchange.
The Parthian, that valiant run-away,
To yeeld new cause of triumph doth assay.
Egystus was a letcher, and why so?

The cause was he had nothing else to do.
When all the youths of Greece for Troy were bound,
And with a wall of men enclos'd it round,
Egystus would not from his home remove,
Where he did nothing, but that nothing love.
If these faile, to the country then repaire,
For any care extinguisheth this care:
There maist thou see the oxe, the yoke obey,

And though the earth, ploughs eating throgh their

way:

To whom thou maist set corne to use, and see

For every corne, spring up a little tree.

The sunne being midwife, thou shalt oft finde there,
Trees bearing far more fruite then they can beare.
And how the silver brookes are riding post,
Till in some river they themselves have lost.
There maist thou see goates skale the highest hill,

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