To an Inconstant Lover

Wilt thou be gone, thou heartless man?

Here's none seeks to do thee wrong.

Here's food would warm the coldest blood,

Joys would make an old man young.

Here are eyes that would move

Stones to pity, rocks to Iove,

Cheeks of a vermillion hue

Sweet as roses in a dew.

Who but a silly swain or foolish guest

For homely cates would leave so dainty a feast?

Wilt thou be gone, thou frosty man?

Is not beauty a fair prize?

Dost rate thy pelf with true love's wealth?

Foolish man, where are thine eyes?

Here are lips both fresh and fair,

Red as cherries in their prime,

Globe-like breasts, both smooth and white,

Full of pleasure and delight.

Who but an ass woulid leave such dainty a store,

To feed on thistles when better meat's before?

Go get thee gone, thou senseless man,

And make marts with such as she

Who both in kind and currish mind

Ev'ry way's as base as thee;

That hath eyelids like some witch,

Wrinkled cheeks as black as pitch,

Lips as pale, and for her breasts,

Lank and loathsome as the rest.

May she disgrace her sex and thee so far

That thou may'st languish to death with loathing her.