The Weather Vane

In all things, both good or ill,
I must conform to my lover's will.

How is it that blind Cupid domineers us, poor husbands, still,
And makes us trudge, and turn, and trot, according to our mistress' will?
When she weeps, we too cry, although our bodies are at ease,
And when she's merry, we must laugh, although it may us quite displease.

In brief, the least blast of her mouth, doth nimbly turn our head,
And both our soul and body are by her direction led.
Her look, to us, a law is sure, in mirth or mourning ever,
There's none, but that a woman's breath will make us melt or shiver.

Not having a mind of its own, the weather vane goes
Whichever way the wind blows.