Sir Henry Wotton A Woman's Heart O faithless world, and thy most faithless part, A woman's heart! The true shop of variety, where sits And fevers of desire, and pangs of love, Why was she born to please? or I to trust Words writ in dust, Suffering her eyes to govern my despair, My pain for air; And fruit of time rewarded with untruth, The food of youth? Untrue she was; yet I believed her eyes, Instructed spies, Till I was taught that love was but a school To breed a fool. Or sought she more, by triumphs of denial, To make a trial How far her smiles commanded my weakness? Yield and confess! Excuse no more thy folly; but, for cure, Blush and endure As well thy shame as passions that were vain; And think, 'tis gain, To know that love lodged in a woman's breast Is but a guest. The Happy Life How happy is he born and taught Whose passions not his masters are; Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumours freed; Who God doth late and early pray |