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EBBA 30134

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
Labour in vaine.
An imperfect description of Love.
Imperfect I well call it may,
For who can all Loves parts display?
To a dainty new tune, called Jenkinson.

FIe upon love, fond love,
false love,
Great are the torments
that Lovers endure:
It is a snare, brings care,
bones bare,
None can a remedy
for it procure:
Of all the afflictions
that are incident
To us while we march
under Times regiment,
Theres nothing to man
brings so much discontent
as love unbeloved againe.
It breaketh our sleep,
it distracteth the wit,
It makes us doe things
that for men are unfit:
If I may but give
It a true censure on it,
shall be calld Labour in vaine.

Love is a fire, hot fire,
fierce fire,
Who can abide?
the extremity ont!
It burnes the reines, great pains,
small gaines
Shall a man get
after beauty to hunt:
Tis that which the learned
by right doe name
(As I doe conjecture)
the Idalean flame,
Jove grant that I never
doe feele the same.
so neer as I can Ile refrain:
Yet if the blind rascall
at me shall shoot,
I know to withstand him
it were no boot,
Both young men and maidens
with you look tot,
For this is right Labour in vain.

Love is a well, deepe well,
steep well,
No man can sound
its profundity right:
The water int, melts [fl]int
sets stint
Both to the Pesant,
the Lord, and the Knight:
It is Aganipe,
or Helicon,
It gives him invention
that erst had none:
It yeelds enough matter
to worke upon
For every illiterate swaine:
Tis like to that water
where Tantalus stood,
A man may be starvd
among plenty of food,
I had rather taste of
the coole running flood,
Then drink at this Labour in vain.

The second part, To the same tune.

LOve is a hill, high hill,
great hill,
No man ere climbd
to the top of the same:
He that aspires, it tyres,
with bryers
It is invironed
wilde men to tame.
Tis that against which
poore Sisiphus strives
To roule up a stone,
which downward drives,
This restlesse toyle
costs many mens lives,
& few by the journey do gain:
The paths are so difficult
to find out,
The best Cosmographer
his skill may doubt,
Twill daunt him if he
thinks himselfe most stout,
And this is right Labour in vain.

Love is a chaine, strong chaine,
long chaine,
He who is bound in it
seldome gets free,
Twill hold him fast, till thlast,
houres past,
Though strong as Hector,
or Ajax he be,
Tis that wherewith lusty
Alcides bound
The three headed Cerberus,

that hell-hound,
When he did Don Plutoes
power confound,
and got Proserpina againe.
Tis that wherewith Sampson,
bythPhilistims was
Bound to the mill
where he ground like an asse:
Tis stronger then iron,
steele, or brasse,
And this is calld Labour in vain.

Love is a wheele, round wheele,
swift wheele,
Which when tis turning
nones able to stop:
In circle wise, it flyes,
and hyes
Swiftly to bring
what was lowest toth top:
Tis that which unfortunate
Ixion turnes,
While at his nere ending
labour he mournes,
The axletree of it
perpetually burnes,
because it no liquor can gaine:
In briefe, Love is any thing
thats without rest,
A passion that boileth
and scaldeth the breast,
Yet he who loves lovd againe
(fo[r] all this jest)
Dwellsr not at the Labour in vain.

Printed at London for Thomas Lambert. Finis. M.P.

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