Full Lyrics
And thinke ye Nymphes to scorne at love?
as if his fire were but of strawes:
he made the mightie gods above,
to stoope and bowe unto his lawes,
& with his shafts of beautie bright,
he slaies the hearts that scorne his might.
Love is a fit of pleasure,
bred out of Idle braines,
his fancies have no measure,
no more than have his paines,
his vaine affections like the weather,
precise or fond, we wot not whether.
