Lost love, I answer, since you make me tell
Of every maiden who from prudence fell
Unto the rambling tide, flirtation swell.
I mete my mind, though ye regard in scorn;
She gives her heart, in many fragments torn,
A piece to each who have her flirtings borne.

Who spreads her charms to every wind that beats,
Or loves a bit with every man she meets,
Of constant love can never be possessed.
Duped is the man who, for a mating nest,
Sets choice on her; his life shall lack of rest.