A Strife is growne betweene Vertue and Love, While each pretends, that _Stella_ must be his; Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love doe this, Since they doe weare his badge, most firmely prove; But Vertue thus, that title doth disprove. That _Stella_, (ô deere name) that _Stella_ is, That vertuous Soule, sure heyre of heavenly Blisse: Not this faire outside, which our hart doth move; And therefore, though _her_ beauty and _her_ grace, Be Loves indeede, in _Stellas_ selfe he may By no pretence claime any manner place. Well Love, since this Demurre our sute doth staie. Let Vertue have that _Stellas_ selfe, yet thus, That Vertue but that body graunt to us. In Martiall sportes I had my cunning tryde, And yet to breake more Staves I did mee adresse While that the peopl’s showtes: I must confesse, Youth, luck, and praise, even filld my vaines with pride; When _Cupid_ having me his slave descride, In _Mars_ his liverie, prauncing in the presse. What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse) Looke heere I say; I lookt, and _Stella_ spide: Who hard by through a window sent forth light; My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes. One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight, No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries; My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee, Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see. Because I breathe not love to every one, Nor doe not use sette Colours for to weare: Nor nourish speciall locks with vowed haire, Nor give each speech a full point of a grone, The Courtly Nymphes acquainted with the mone Of them, which in their lips Loves Standard beare: What he, (say they of me) now I dare sweare, He cannot love: no, no, let him alone. And thinke so still, so _Stella_ know my minde. Professe in deede, I do not _Cupid’s_ art. But you faire Maides, at length this true shall find, That his right badge, is but worne in the hart. Dumbe Swans, not chattering Pyes doe Lovers prove, They love in deed, who quake to say they love. Fie schoole of Patience, fie, your Lesson is Far far too long, to learne it without booke: What, a whole weeke, without one peece of looke? And thinke I should not your large precepts misse, When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse, Which in _her_ face teach vertue, I could brooke, Somewhat thy leaden counsels which I tooke: As of a freend that meant not much amisse: But now alas, that I doe want _her_ sight, What doost thou thinke that I can ever take, In thy colde stuffe, a phlegmatick delight? No Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make Her come, and heare with patience my desires And then with patience bid me beare my fire.