Labour in vain. OR An imperfect description of Love.  
Imperfect I well call it may,  
For who can all Love's 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 Time's regiment,  
There's nothing to man  
brings so much discontent  
as love unbeloved again.  
It breaketh our sleep,  
it distracteth the wit,  
It makes us do things  
that for men are unfit:  
If I may but give  
It a true censure on it,  
shall be called Labour in vain.   

Love is a fire, hot fire,  
fierce fire,  
Who can abide  
the extremity on't!  
It burns the reins, great pains,  
small gains  
Shall a man get  
after beauty to hunt:  
'tis that which the learned  
by right do name  
(As I do conjecture)  
the Idalean flame,  
Jove grant that I never  
do feel the same.  
so near as I can I'll refrain:  
Yet if the blind rascal  
at me shall shoot,  
I know to withstand him  
it were no boot,  
Both young men and maidens  
with you look to't,  
For this is right Labour in vain.   

Love is a well, deep well,  
stéep well,  
No man can sound  
its profundity right:  
The water in't, melts ●int  
sets stint  
Both to the Peasant,  
the Lord, and the Knight:  
It is Aganipe,  
or Helicon,  
It gives him invention  
that erst had none:  
It yields enough matter  
to work upon  
For every illiterate swain:  
'tis like to that water  
where Tantalus stood,  
A man may be starved  
among plenty of food,  
I had rather taste of  
the cool 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 climbed  
to the top of the same:  
He that aspires, it tires,  
with briers  
It is environed  
wild men to tame.  
'tis that against which  
poor Sisyphus strives  
To roll up a stone,  
which downward drives,  
This restless foil  
costs many men's 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 himself most stout,  
And this is right Labour in vain.   

Love is a chain, strong chain,  
long chain,  
He who is bound in it  
seldom gets free,  
'twill hold him fast, till th'last,  
hour's past,  
Though strong as Hector,  
or Aiax he be,  
'tis that wherewith lusty  
Aleides bound  
The three headed Cerberus,  
that hellhound,  
When he did Don Pluto's  
power confound,  
and got Proserpina again.  
'tis that where with Samson,  
byth' Philistines was  
Bound to the mill  
where he ground like an ass:  
'tis stronger than iron,  
steel, or brass,  
And this is called Labour in vain.   

Love is a wheel, round wheel,  
swift wheel,  
Which when 'tis turning  
none's able to stop:  
In circle wise, it flies,  
and hies  
Swiftly to bring  
what was lowest toth' top:  
'tis that which unfortunate  
Ixion turns,  
While at his ne'er ending  
labour he mourns,  
The axletree of it  
perpetually burns,  
because it no liquor can gain:  
In brief, Love is any thing  
that's without rest,  
A passion that boileth  
and scaldeth the breast,  
Yet he who loves loved again  
(so all this jest)  
Dwelsr not at the Labour in vain.    
M. P.  
Finis.   

Printed at London for Thomas Lambert.