Classic Poem

XV.
So many loves have I neglected
Whose good parts might move mee,
That now I live of all rejected,
There is none will love me.
Why is mayden heate so coy?
It freezeth when it burneth,
Looseth what it might injoy,
And, having lost it, mourneth.

Should I then wooe, that have been wooed,
Seeking them that flye mee?
When I my faith with teares have vowed,
And when all denye mee,
Who will pitty my disgrace,
Which love might have prevented?
There is no submission base
Where error is repented.

O happy men, whose hopes are licenc'd
To discourse their passion,
While women are confin'd to silence,
Loosing wisht occasion.
Yet our tongues then theirs, men say,
Are apter to be moving:
Women are more dumbe then they,
But in their thoughts more roving.

When I compare my former strangenesse
With my present doting,
I pitty men that speake in plainenesse,
Their true hearts devoting;
While wee with repentance jest
At their submissive passion:
Maydes, I see, are never blest
That strange be but for fashion.