I Why I Write Not To Love

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.