I will not call for aid to any Muse (It is for learned Poets so to do): Affection must, my want of Art excuse, My works must have their patronage from You! Whose sweet assistance, if obtain I might! I should be able both to speak and write [Sidenote: _Nemini datur amare simul et sapere._] Meanwhile, vouchsafe to read this, as assigned To no man's censure; but to yours alone! Pardon the faults, that you therein shall find; And think the writer's heart was not his own! Experience of examples daily prove "That no man can be well advised, and love!" And though the work itself deserve it not (Such is your Worth, with my great Wants compared!); Yet may my love unfeignèd, without spot, Challenge so much (if more cannot be spared!). Then, lovely Virgin! take this in good part! The rest, unseen, is sealed up in the heart. Judge not by this, the depth of my affection! Which far exceeds the measure of my skill; But rather note herein your own perfection! So shall appear my want of Art, not will: Wherefore, this now, as part in lieu of greater, I offer as an insufficient debtor! [Illustration] [Illustration] _Sic incipit Stultorum Tragicomedia._ [Illustration] It was my chance, unhappy chance to me! As, all alone, I wandered on my way; Void of distrust, from doubt of dangers free, To pass a grove where LOVE in ambush lay: Who aiming at me with his feathered dart, Conveyed it by mine eye unto my heart. Where, retchless boy! he let the arrow stick, When I, as one amazèd, senseless stood. The hurt was great, yet seemèd but a prick! The wound was deep, and yet appeared no blood! But inwardly it bleeds. Proof teacheth this. When wounds do so, the danger greater is. Pausing a while, and grievèd with my wound, I looked about, expecting some relief: Small hope of help, no ease of pain I found. Like, all at once, to perish in my grief: When hastily, I pluckèd forth the dart; But left the head fast fixèd in my heart. Fast fixèd in my heart, I left the head, From whence I doubt it will not be removed. Ah, what unlucky chance that way me led? O LOVE! thy force thou might'st elsewhere have proved! And shewed thy power, where thou art not obeyed! "The conquest's small, where no resist is made." But nought, alas, avails it to complain; I rest resolved, with patience to endure. The fire being once dispersed through every vein, It is too late to hope for present cure. Now PHILOPARTHEN must new follies prove, And learn a little, what it is to love! [Illustration]