If women could be fair and never fond,
  Or that their beauty might continue still,
I would not marvel though they made men bond
  By service long to purchase their goodwill:
But when I see how frail these creatures are,
I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make and how they change,
  How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still;
And how, like haggards wild, about they range,
  [And scorning reason follow after will!]1
Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist
And let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list?

Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both,
  To pass the time when nothing else can please:
And train them on to yield by subtle oath
  The sweet content that gives such humour ease:
And then we say, when we their follies try,
“To play with fools, O, what a fool was I!”