Sir Edward Sherburne (1618–1702)

THERE’S no dallying with love

Though he be a child and blind;

Then let none the danger prove,

Who would to himself be kind:

Smile he does when thou dost play,

But his smiles to death betray.

Lately with the Boy I sported;

Love I did not, yet love feigned;

Had not mistress, yet I courted;

Sigh I did, yet was not pained;

Till at last this love in jest,

Proved in earnest my unrest.

When I saw my fair one first,

In a feignèd fire I burned;

But true flames my poor heart pierced,

When her eyes on mine she turned:

So a real wound I took,

For my counterfeited look.

Slighted Love, his skill to show,

Struck me with a mortal dart;

Then I learnt that ’gainst his bow,

Vain are the weak helps of art;

And thus captiv’d, found that true

Doth dissembled love pursue.

’Cause his fetters I disclaimed,

Now the tyrant faster bound me;

With more scorching brands inflamed,

’Cause in love so cold he found me:

And my sighs more scalding made,

’Cause with winds before they played.

None who loves not, then make shew,

Love’s as ill deceived as Fate;

Fly the Boy, he’ll cog and woo;

Mock him, and he wounds thee straight.

Ah! who dally, boast in vain;

False love wants not real pain.