The poem
He that cannot choose but love, And strives against it still, Never shall my fancy move, For he loves 'gainst his will; Nor he which is all his own, And can at pleasure choose, When I am caught he can be gone, And when he list refuse. Nor he that loves none but fair, For such by all are sought; Nor he that can for foul ones care, For his judgement then is nought; Nor he that hath wit, for he Will make me his jest or slave; Nor a fool, for when others..., He can neither....; Nor he that still his Mistress pays, For she is thralled therefore; Nor he that pays not, for he says Within She's worth no more. Is there then no kind of men Whom I may freely prove? I will vent that humour then In mine own self-love.