John Fletcher (1579–1625)

TELL me, dearest, what is love?

’Tis a lightning from above;

’Tis an arrow, ’tis a fire,

’Tis a boy they call Desire.

’Tis a grave,

Gapes to have

Those poor fools that long to prove.

Tell me more, are women true?

Yes, some are, and some as you.

Some are willing, some are strange,

Since you men first taught to change.

And till troth

Be in both,

All shall love, to love anew.

Tell me more yet, can they grieve?

Yes, and sicken sore, but live,

And be wise, and delay,

When you men are wise as they.

Then I see,

Faith will be,

Never till they both believe.