Devoid of rest, companion of distress,
    Plague to myself, consumed by my thought,
    How may my voice or pipe in tune be brought,
    Since I am reft of solace and delight?

    CORYDON

    Ah, lorrel lad, what makes thee hery[1] love? 
    A sugared harm, a poison full of pleasure,
    A painted shrine full filled with rotten treasure;
    A heaven in show, a hell to them that prove.[2]

    A gain in seeming, shadowed still with want,
    A broken staff which folly doth uphold,
    A flower that fades with every frosty cold,
    An orient rose sprung from a withered plant.

    A minute’s joy to gain a world of grief,
    A subtle net to snare the idle mind,
    A seeing scorpion, yet in seeming blind,
    A poor rejoice, a plague without relief.

    Forthy,[3] Montanus, follow mine arede,[4]
    (Whom age hath taught the trains[5] that fancy useth)
    Leave foolish love, for beauty wit abuseth,
    And drowns, by folly, virtue’s springing seed.

[Footnote 1:  praise.]

[Footnote 2:  try, test.]

[Footnote 3:  hence.]

[Footnote 4:  advice.]

[Footnote 5:  stratagems.]

    MONTANUS

    So blames the child the flame because it burns,
    And bird the snare because it doth entrap,
    And fools true love because of sorry hap,
    And sailors curse the ship that overturns.

    But would the child forbear to play with flame,
    And birds beware to trust the fowler’s gin,
    And fools foresee before they fall and sin,
    And masters guide their ships in better frame;

    The child would praise the fire because it warms,
    And birds rejoice to see the fowler fail,
    And fools prevent before their plagues prevail,
    And sailors bless the barque that saves from harms.

    Ah, Corydon, though many be thy years,
    And crooked elde[1] hath some experience left,
    Yet is thy mind of judgment quite bereft,
    In view of love, whose power in me appears.

    The ploughman little wots to turn the pen,
    Or bookman skills to guide the ploughman’s cart;
    Nor can the cobbler count the terms of art,
    Nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men.

    Nor withered age, unmeet for beauty’s guide,
    Uncapable of love’s impression,
    Discourse of that whose choice possession
    May never to so base a man be tied.

    But I, whom nature makes of tender mould,
    And youth most pliant yields to fancy’s fire,
    Do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire,
    On sweet desire, more dear to me than gold.

    Think I of love, oh, how my lines aspire! 
    How haste the Muses to embrace my brows,
    And hem my temples in with laurel boughs,
    And fill my brains with chaste and holy fire!