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Her courteous, sweet and debonair,

Small wit have they who trust her fair

And specious seeming. Yea, although

Sweet kindness she at times may show

To lovers, other whiles will she

Lure them to deepest misery.

And oftentimes will Hope pretend

One’s love to be, but in the end

Prove false, and many have found her thus.

Most sweet and dear, but treacherous.

How many by her wiles have been

Drawn on to love, yet ne’er have seen

Fulfilment. Nothing more she knows

Of what shall hap, than he who throws

The dice, and often those who trust

In Hope’s fair promises are thrust

From highest heaven to deepest hell,

As many a love-lorn wight could tell.

And many a worthy man, alas!

Through her hath seen his best days pass

To wreck and ruin. With her can be

Nought certain, for uncertainty.

she lives on. Yet her will

It is, the longing to fulfil

Of those who wait on her. Oh why

Should I then blame her wrathfully?

Yet what avails her help or aid?

Have I gained aught from her that made

My sufferings less? Nowise I trow.

For ne’er I find her promise grow

To ripeness, and a promise fair

That doth not fruit in season bear,