Vaine men, whose follies make a God of Loue,
Whose blindnesse beauty doth immortall deeme ;
Prayse not what you desire, but what you proue,
Count those things good that are, no those that seeme :
I cannot call her true that's false to me,
Nor make of women more then women be.

How faire an entrance breakes the way to loue !
How rich of golden hope and gay delight !
What hart cannot a modest beauty moue ?
Who, seeing cleare day once, will dreame of night ?
Shee seem'd a Saint, that brake her faith with mee,
But prou'd a woman as all other be.

So bitter is their sweet, that true content
Vnhappy men in them may neuer finde :
Ah, but without them none ;  both must consent,
Else vncouth are the ioyes of eyther kinde.
Let vs then prayse their good, forget their ill :
Men must be men, and women women still.