Desire, though thou mine olde companion art, And oft so clinges to my pure Love, that I One from the other scarcely can discry: While each doth blowe the fier of my hart: Now from thy fellowship I needs must part. _Venus_ is taught with _Dians_ wings to flye, I must no more in thy sweete passions lie, Vertues golde now, must head my _Cupids_ dart, Service and honour wonder with delight, Feare to offend, well worthie to appeare: Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my spright, These things are left me by my onely deare. But thou Desire, because thou wouldst have all: Now banisht art, yet alas how shall? Love still a Boy, and oft a wanton is, Schoolde only by his Mothers tender eye: What wonder then if he his lesson misse, When for so soft a rod deare play he trye. And yet my starre, because a sugred kisse, In sport I sucke, while she a sleepe did lye: Doth lowre, naye chide, nay threat for onely this: Sweet it was saucy love, not humble I. But no scuse serves, she makes her wrath appeare, In Beauties throne, see now who dares come neere Those scarlet Judges, threatning blooddie paine. O heavenly Foole, thy most kisse worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That Angers selfe I needes must kisse againe. I Never dranke of _Aganippe_ well, Nor never did in shade of _Tempe_ sit: And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell, Poore Lay-man I, for sacred rites unfit. Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell, But God wot, wot not what they meane by it: And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell, I am no Pickepurse of an others wit. How fals it than, that with so smooth an ease My thoughts I speake? And what I speake doth flowe In verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please, Gesse we the cause. What is it this? fie no, Or so? much lesse. How then? sure thus it is, My Lips are sure inspir’d with _Stellas_ kisse. Of all the Kings that ever heere did raigne, _Edward_ namde fourth, as first in praise I name: Not for his faire outside, nor well linde braine, Although lesse guift, imp feathers oft no fame. Nor that he could young wise, wise valliant frame His Syres revenge, joynde with a kingdomes gaine: And gaind by _Mars_, could yet mad _Mars_ so tame, That ballance waide what sword did late obtaine. Nor that he made the Flower de lys so fraide, Though strongly hedgd of bloody Lyons pawes: That wittie _Lewes_ to him a tribuite paide; Nor this nor that, nor any such small cause, But onely, for this worthy King durst prove, To loose his Crowne, rather then fayle his Love.