The young women are great for the imagination, but I don't get too intimate.
One woman scarce of twenty
But hath of tears great plenty
Which they pour out like fountains
That run down from the mountains
Yet all is but beguiling,
Their tears and eke their smiling.
I'll therefore never trust them,
Since nature hath so cursed them
That they can weep in smiling,
Poor fools thereby beguiling.
One woman scarce of twenty
But hath of tears great plenty
Which they pour out like fountains
That run down from the mountains
Yet all is but beguiling,
Their tears and eke their smiling.
I'll therefore never trust them,
Since nature hath so cursed them
That they can weep in smiling,
Poor fools thereby beguiling.