My Cousin's A Fool, And Thou Art

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.

O Gentlemen, The Time Of Life Is Short! To Spend That Shortness Basely Were Too Long, If Life Did Ride Upon A Dial's Point, Still Ending At The Arrival Of An Hour.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

I Thank God I Am Not A Woman, To Be Touched In So Many Giddy Offences As He Hath Generally Taxed Their Whole Their Whole Sex Withal.

And Yet, By Heaven, I Think My Love As Rare As Any She Belied With False Compare.