And Think Ye Nymphs a6

And think ye nymphs to scorn at love?

As if his fire were but of straws

He made the mighty gods above

To stoop and bow unto his laws

And with his shafts of beauty bright

He slays the hearts that scorn his might

Love is a fit of pleasure

Bred out of idle brains

His fancies have no measure

No more than have his pains

His vain affections like the weather

Precise or fond, we wot not whether