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 get

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 got

By any art. Then wonder not,

That since, my numbers are so cold,

When

Love

is fled, and I grow old.