Love is a bable,
  No man is able
To say 'tis this or 'tis that;
  So full of passions
  Of sundry fashions
'Tis like I cannot tell what.

  Love's fair in the cradle,
  Foul in the fable,
'Tis either too cold or too hot;
  An arrant liar,
  Fed by desire,
It is, and yet it is not.

  Love is a fellow,
  Clad oft in yellow,
The canker-worm of the mind
  A privy mischief,
  And such a sly thief
No man knows which way to find.

  Love is a wonder
  That's here and yonder,
As common to one as to moe;
  A monstrous cheater,
  Every man's debtor;
Hang him and so let him go.