In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kinde Thou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies; That when the heaven to thee his best displaies, Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde. That like a Childe that some faire booke doth finde With gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playes Or at the most on some faire picture stares, But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde. So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet, _Stella_, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes: In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set, And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes, Playing and shining in each outward part: But foole seekst not to get into her hart. _Cupid_ because thou shin’st in _Stellas_ eyes, That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free: That those lips swelde so full of thee they be. That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise, That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes, That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee, What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee: That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes. Thou countest _Stella_ thine, like those whose powres Having got up a breach; (by fighting well) Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours: Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell. So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine: That to winne it, is all the skill and paine. _Phœbus_ was Judge, betweene _Jove_, _Mars,_ & love, Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were: _Joves_ golden shield, did Eagle Sables beare: Whose talents held young _Ganimede_ above. But in verde fielde, _Mars_ bare a golden Speare, Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove: Each had his Crest, _Mars_ carried _Venus_ glove. _Jove_ on his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare. _Cupid_ then smiles, for on his crest there lyes _Stellas_ faire haire, her face he makes his shielde: Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde. _Phœbus_ drewe wide the Curtaine of the skyes To blase the last, and swore devoutly then: The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen. Alas, have I not paine enough my friend, Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre, Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre; While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend, But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend, To greeve me worse in saying, that desier Doth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mier Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende. If that be sinne which doth the manners frame, Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede, Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame; If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede, A loathing of all lose unchastitie; Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.