You that do search for every purling spring, Which from the rybs of old _Parnassus_ flowes, And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growes Neere there about, into your Poesie wring. Ye that do Dictionaries method bring Into your rymes, running in ratling rowes, You that poore _Petrarchs_ long deceased woes With new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing; You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such, As doe bewray a want of inward tutch, And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light. But if both for your love and skill you name, You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame, _Stella_ behold and then begin t’endite. In nature apt to like, when I did see Beauties which were of many Carrects fine, My boyling spirits did thether soone encline, And Love I thought that I was full of thee; But finding not those restles flames in mee Which others said did make their soules to pyne, I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine: By my love judging what loves paines might be. But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid, Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheld _Stella_: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd? In her sight I a lesson new have speld. I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so, As who by being poysond doth poyson know. His mother deere _Cupid_ offended late, Because that _Mars_ grew slacker in her love, With pricking shot he did not throughly move To keepe the pace of their first loving state: The boy refusde, for feare of _Marses_ hate; Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove: But she in chafe him from her lap did shove, Brake bowe, brake shafts, where _Cupid_ weeping sate, Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it, Of _Stellas_ browes made him two better bowes: And in her eyes of arrowes infinit. O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes; And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play: Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way. With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent, When into Reasons Audit I doe goe: And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt know Of all those goods which heaven to me hath lent, Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent, Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe: And which is worse, no good excuse can showe, But that my wealth I have most idely spent, My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes, My wit doth strive, those passions to defende Which for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes; I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende. I see and yet no greater sorrowe take Than that I looke no more for _Stellas_ sake.