O woe, thou knave of fickle hearts deceit,
In shadows deep, where trust doth bleed and die..
A man, poor fool, with love’s own blindness sweet,
Doth find his bed defil’d by treach’rous eye. Hark, cuckold’s horns do sprout upon his brow,
His lady fair, with guile, hath wander’d far;
In neighbour’s arms she plights her secret vow,
And makes of wedlock’s bond a jest bizarre. O fickle wench, with smiles that falsely gleam,
Thy lips, once sworn to truth, now weave a lie!
In silken sheets, thou play’st thy wanton dream,
Whilst he, poor sot, doth wail and question why. “Alas,” cries he, “my love, my dove, my all,
How dost thou sport with rogues in moonlit shade?”
Yet she, with brazen laugh, doth scorn his call,
And bids him wear the fool’s cap she hath made. O Cupid, blind, thy darts do wound amiss!
Thy jest is cruel, to mock this honest knave.
His heart, once warm, now chills in faithless bliss,
And bears the badge of shame unto the grave. So let this tale, in mocking mirth be told,
Of cuckolds woe, in verses sharp and sly,
A wifes deceit, more bitter than the cold,
Doth teach a man to curse, to weep, to sigh.