Mary Wroth
Love a child is, ever crying,
Please him, and he straight is flying,
Give him, he the more is craving
Never satisfied with having;
His desires have no measure,
Endless folly is his treasure,
What he promiseth he breaketh
Trust not one word that he speaketh;
He vows nothing but false matter
And to cosen you he'll flatter,
Let him gain the hand he'll leave you,
And still glory to deceive you;
He will triumph in your wailing,
And yet cause be of your failing,
These his virtues are, and slighter
Are his gifts, his favours lighter,
Feathers are as firm in staying
Wolves no fiercer in their preying
As a child then leave him crying
Nor seek him so given to flying.