Let longing Lovers fit and pine, 
And the forsaken Willow wear, 
Love shall not blast this heart of mine, 
With ling'ring hope or killing feare: 
Ile never love till I injoy, 
Or lose my time on her that's coy. 

If Ladies call us to the field,
And all their colours there display,
Alasse, they needs must to us yeeld,
Since we are better arm'd then they;
Tis folly then to beg or whine
For us that are born Masculine.

Then Lovers learn your strength to know,
And you may overcome with ease,
Your enemy fights with a Bow
That cannot wound unlesse you please,
And he that pines because shee's coy,
Wants wit, or courage, women say.