Love, O vile temptress that doth sway my moods
Into palest threads of purity. Why?
Must you dislodge ev’ry mote of reason?
Must you chain my brain through ev’ry season?
If I be truly a man, and I am,
Then I’m beholden to Love’s perverse laugh
Her tender hand has not a gentle touch
Her sweet voice speaks words that soothe not my ears
Ah, Love! For she, surely a fool I’ll be
Against my will and opposed to my creed
She takes all I want, my soul she does haunt
She delights at my scorn, and scorns my needs
Love is not a Lover, No! she is Foul.
Love is a murderess, a black widow
Slaying emotion, stifling compassion
Boys croon and girls swoon at Love’s wolfish growl.
To fall in love, truly, be a pox on man
Fatal distractions most painful of all
Would that we were but rational beings
Love’s lethal lullaby needn’t lead to a Fall
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