FOUNDATIONS

Those lovers old had rare conceits

To make persuasion beautiful,

Or rail upon the pretty fool

Who would not share those wanton sweets

That, guarded, soon are bitterness.

But we, my love, can look on these

Old tournaments of wit, and say

What novices of love were they,

Who loved by seasons and degrees,

And in the rate of more and less.

We will not make of love a stale

For deft and nimble argument,

Nor shall denial and consent

Be processes whereof shall fail

One surety that we possess.