There's nothing grieues me, but that Age should haste, That in my dayes I may not see thee old, That where those two deare sparkling Eyes are plac'd, Onely two Loope-holes, then I might behold. That louely, arched, yuorie, pollish'd Brow, Defac'd with Wrinkles, that I might but see; Thy daintie Hayre, so curl'd, and crisped now, Like grizzled Mosse vpon some aged Tree; Thy Cheeke, now flush with Roses, sunke, and leane, Thy Lips, with age, as any Wafer thinne, Thy Pearly teeth out of thy head so cleane, That when thou feed'st, thy Nose shall touch thy Chinne: These Lines that now thou scorn'st, which should delight thee, Then would I make thee read, but to despight thee. 15 _His Remedie for Loue_ Since to obtaine thee, nothing me will sted, I haue a Med'cine that shall cure my Loue, The powder of her Heart dry'd, when she is dead, That Gold nor Honour ne'r had power to moue; Mix'd with her Teares, that ne'r her true-Loue crost, Nor at Fifteene ne'r long'd to be a Bride, Boyl'd with her Sighes, in giuing vp the Ghost, That for her late deceased Husband dy'd; Into the same then let a Woman breathe, That being chid, did neuer word replie, With one thrice-marry'd's Pray'rs, that did bequeath A Legacie to stale Virginitie. If this Receit haue not the pow'r to winne me, Little Ile say, but thinke the Deuill's in me. 21 A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo'd, (Yet his dull Spirit her not one iot could moue) Intreated me, as e'r I wish'd his good, To write him but one Sonnet to his Loue: When I, as fast as e'r my Penne could trot, Powr'd out what first from quicke Inuention came; Nor neuer stood one word thereof to blot, Much like his Wit, that was to vse the same: But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne, Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure. But soe, for you to Heau'n for Phraze I runne, And ransacke all APOLLO'S golden Treasure; Yet by my Troth, this Foole his Loue obtaines, And I lose you, for all my Wit and Paines. 27 Is not Loue here, as 'tis in other Clymes, And diff'reth it, as doe the seu'rall Nations? Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times, Or in this land alt'reth with the Fashions? Or haue our Passions lesser pow'r then theirs, Who had lesse Art them liuely to expresse? Is Nature growne lesse pow'rfull in their Heires, Or in our Fathers did the more transgresse? I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true, As any Mans, that Memory can boast, And my Respects and Seruices to you Equall with his, that loues his Mistris most: Or Nature must be partiall in my Cause, Or onely you doe violate her Lawes. 36 _Cupid coniured_