Of the Folly of loving when the Season of Love is past

YE old mule! that think yourself so fair,

Leave off with craft your beauty to repair,

For it is time without any fable;

No man setteth now by riding in your saddle!

Too much travail so do your train appair

Ye old mule!

With false favour though you deceive the ayes,

Who so taste you shall well perceive your layes

Savoureth somewhat of a keeper’s stable;

Ye old mule!

Ye must now serve to market, and to fair,

All for the burthen, for panniers a pair;

For since grey hairs ben powder’d in your sable,

The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable

To purchase it by payment and by prayer;

Ye old mule!