POEM: WOOING-STUFF

Faint amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Loves honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour?

Dost thou ever think to enter Th Elysian fields, that darst not venture In Charons barge? a lovers mind Must use to sail with every wind. He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee? tis to show it, That thy coldness makes her do it: Is she silent? is she mute?

Silence fully grants thy suit: Doth she pout, and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come: Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure: Doth she cross thy suit with "No?" Tush, she loves to hear thee woo: Doth she call the faith of man In question? Nay, she loves thee than; And if eer she makes a blot, Shes lost if that thou hitst her not. He that after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.