Labour in vaine.
OR
An imperfect description of Love.
Imperfect I well call it may,
For who can all Loves parts display?
To a dainty new tune, called Jenkinson.
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FIe upon love, fond love,
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false love,
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Great are the torments
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that Lovers endure:
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It is a snare, brings care,
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bones bare,
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None can a remedy
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for it procure:
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Of all the afflictions
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that are incident
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To us while we march
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under Times regiment,
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Theres nothing to man
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brings so much discontent
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as love unbeloved againe.
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It breaketh our sleep,
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it distracteth the wit,
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It makes us doe things
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that for men are unfit:
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If I may but give
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It a true censure on it,
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shall be calld Labour in vaine.
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Love is a fire, hot fire,
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fierce fire,
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Who can abide?
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the extremity ont!
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It burnes the reines, great pains,
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small gaines
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Shall a man get
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after beauty to hunt:
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Tis that which the learned
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by right doe name
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(As I doe conjecture)
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the Idalean flame,
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Jove grant that I never
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doe feele the same.
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so neer as I can Ile refrain:
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Yet if the blind rascall
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at me shall shoot,
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I know to withstand him
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it were no boot,
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Both young men and maidens
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with you look tot,
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For this is right Labour in vain.
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Love is a well, deepe well,
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steep well,
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No man can sound
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its profundity right:
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The water int, melts [fl]int
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sets stint
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Both to the Pesant,
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the Lord, and the Knight:
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It is Aganipe,
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or Helicon,
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It gives him invention
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that erst had none:
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It yeelds enough matter
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to worke upon
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For every illiterate swaine:
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Tis like to that water
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where Tantalus stood,
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A man may be starvd
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among plenty of food,
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I had rather taste of
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the coole running flood,
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Then drink at this Labour in vain.
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The second part, To the same tune.
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LOve is a hill, high hill,
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great hill,
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No man ere climbd
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to the top of the same:
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He that aspires, it tyres,
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with bryers
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It is invironed
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wilde men to tame.
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Tis that against which
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poore Sisiphus strives
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To roule up a stone,
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which downward drives,
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This restlesse toyle
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costs many mens lives,
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& few by the journey do gain:
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The paths are so difficult
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to find out,
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The best Cosmographer
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his skill may doubt,
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Twill daunt him if he
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thinks himselfe most stout,
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And this is right Labour in vain.
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Love is a chaine, strong chaine,
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long chaine,
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He who is bound in it
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seldome gets free,
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Twill hold him fast, till thlast,
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houres past,
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Though strong as Hector,
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or Ajax he be,
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Tis that wherewith lusty
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Alcides bound
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The three headed Cerberus,
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that hell-hound,
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When he did Don Plutoes
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power confound,
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and got Proserpina againe.
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Tis that wherewith Sampson,
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bythPhilistims was
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Bound to the mill
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where he ground like an asse:
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Tis stronger then iron,
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steele, or brasse,
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And this is calld Labour in vain.
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Love is a wheele, round wheele,
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swift wheele,
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Which when tis turning
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nones able to stop:
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In circle wise, it flyes,
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and hyes
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Swiftly to bring
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what was lowest toth top:
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Tis that which unfortunate
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Ixion turnes,
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While at his nere ending
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labour he mournes,
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The axletree of it
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perpetually burnes,
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because it no liquor can gaine:
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In briefe, Love is any thing
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thats without rest,
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A passion that boileth
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and scaldeth the breast,
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Yet he who loves lovd againe
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(fo[r] all this jest)
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Dwellsr not at the Labour in vain.
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