Some act of Love's bound to reherse,
I thought to bind him, in my verse:
Which when he felt,
Away (quoth he)Can Poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough, they once did
Mars, and my Mother, in their net:
I weare not these my wings in vaine.
With which he fled me: and againe,
Into my rimes could ne're be
By any art.
Then wonder not,
That since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow old.
