William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
Accurst Be LoveThomas Lodge (1558–1625)
A
He tastes the fruit whilst others toil,
He brings the lamp, we lend the oil,
He sows distress, we yield him soil,
He wageth war, we bide the foil.
He lays the trap, we seek the snare,
He threat’neth death, we speak him fair,
He coins deceits, we foster care,
He favoureth pride, we count it rare.
He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art,
He sows content, he pays with smart,
He swears relief, yet kills the heart,
He calls for truth, yet scorns desart.
Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains!
Whose heaven is hell, whose perfect joys are pains.