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William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].

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Wholesome counsell.
When as thine eye hath chose the Dame,
    And stalde the deare that thou shouldst strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy (partly all might)
  Take counsell of some wiser head,
  Neither too young, nor yet unwed,
And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talke,
Least she some subtill practise smell,
A Cripple soone can finde a halt,
  But plainely say thou lovst her well,
  And set her person forth to sale.
What though her frowning browes be bent
Her cloudy lookes will calme ere night,
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her delight.
  And twice desire ere it be day,
  That which with scorne she put away.
What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and braule, and say thee nay:
Her feeble force will yeeld at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say:
  Had women beene so strong as men
  In faith you had not had it then.
And to her will frame all thy wayes,
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there,
Where thy desart may merit praise
By ringing in thy Ladies eare,

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  The strongest castle, tower and towne,
  The golden bullet beats it downe.
Serve alwayes with assured trust,
And in thy sute be humble true,
Vnlesse thy Lady prove unjust,
Prease never thou to chuse a new:
  When time shall serve, be thou not slacke,
  To proffer though she put it back.
The wiles and guiles that women worke,
Dissembled with an outward shew:
The tricks and toyes that in them lurke,
The Cock that treads them shall not know;
  Have you not heard it said full oft,
  A Womans nay doth stand for nought.
Thinke women still to strive with men,
To sinne and never for to Saint,
There is no heaven (by holy then)
When time with age shall them attaint,
  Were kisses all the joyes in bed,
  One woman would another wed.
But soft enough, too much I feare,
Least that my mistresse heare my song,
She will not sticke to round me on th'ere,
To teach my tongue to be so long:
  Yet will she blush, here be it said,
  To heare her secrets so bewraid.

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William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].