Sonnet XXI. As winter’s rage, young plants unkindly spilleth

Richard Linche (fl. 1596–1601)

AS winter’s rage, young plants unkindly spilleth;

as hail, green corn; and lightnings, flowers perish;

So man’s decay is Love! whose heart it killeth,

if in his soul, he carefully it cherish.

O how alluringly he offers grace;

and breathes new hope of life into our thought.

With cheerful, pleasant (yet deceitful) face

he creeps and fawns, till, in his net w’ are caught;

Then, when he sees us captives by him led,

and sees us prostrate, humbly craving help,

So fierce a lion, Lybia never bred!

nor adder’s sting! nor any tigress’ whelp!

O blest be they that never felt his force!

LOVE hath, nor pity, mercy, nor remorse!