This is a poem I found in the Penguin Classic paperback "Celtic Miscellany" which is a popular source for translations from Celtic literature. This poem, unlike a lot of others, still has relevant meaning and could have been written this morning. What I don't like about the Celtic Miscellany is that many of the author citations are frustratingly vague. I've tracked down a few of them with some diligent digging. Anyone happen to know who wrote this? The Celtic Miscellany attributes it, as usual, to "Irish; author unknown; fifteenth-sixteenth century?" Tsk, tsk!

TRUST NO MAN

A false love is the love of men - woe to the woman who does their will! Though their fine talk is sweet, their hearts are hidden deep within.

Do not believe their secret whisper, do not believe the close squeeze of their hands, do not believe their sweet-tasting kiss; it is through their love that I am sick.

Do not believe, and I shall not, one man in the world after the fate of all os us; I heard a story yesterday - ah God, it torments me cruelly!

They would offer silver and gold, they would offer treasure too; they would offer lawful marriage to a woman - till morning comes.

Not me alone have they deceived, many a one has been tricked before by the inconstant love of men; och, woe to her who has gone my way!