Not to Love

He that will not love must beMy scholar, and learn this of me:There be in love as many fearsAs the summer's corn has ears:Sighs, and sobs, and sorrows moreThan the sand that makes the shore:Freezing cold and fiery heats,Fainting swoons and deadly sweats;Now an ague, then a fever,Both tormenting lovers ever.Would'st thou know, besides all these,How hard a woman 'tis to please,How cross, how sullen, and how soonShe shifts and changes like the moon.How false, how hollow she's in heart:And how she is her own least part:How high she's priz'd, and worth but small;Little thou'lt love, or not at all.