Oh that I could write a story <br />Of love's dealing with affection! <br />How he makes the spirit sorry <br />That is touch'd with his infection. <br /> <br />But he doth so closely wind him, <br />In the plaits of will ill-pleased, <br />That the heart can never find him <br />Till it be too much diseased. <br /> <br />'Tis a subtle kind or spirit <br />Of a venom-kind of nature, <br />That can, like a coney-ferret, <br />Creep unawares upon a creature. <br /> <br />Never eye that can behold it, <br />Though it worketh first by seeing; <br />Nor conceit that can unfold it, <br />Though in thoughts be all its being. <br /> <br />Oh! it maketh old men witty, <br />Young men wanton, women idle, <br />While that patience weeps, for pity <br />Reason bite not nature's bridle. <br /> <br />What it is, in conjecture; <br />Seeking much, but nothing finding; <br />Like to fancy's architecture <br />With illusions reason blinding. <br /> <br />Yet, can beauty so retain it, <br />In the profit of her service, <br />That she closely can maintain it <br />For her servant chief on office? <br /> <br />In her eye she chiefly breeds it; <br />In her cheeks she chiefly hides it; <br />In her servant's faith she feeds it, <br />While his only heart abides it.<br /><br />Nicholas Breton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-quarrel-with-love/
