21

    A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo’d,
    (Yet his dull Spirit her not one iot could moue)
    Intreated me, as e’r I wish’d his good,
    To write him but one Sonnet to his Loue: 
    When I, as fast as e’r my Penne could trot,
    Powr’d out what first from quicke Inuention came;
    Nor neuer stood one word thereof to blot,
    Much like his Wit, that was to vse the same: 
    But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne,
    Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure. 
    But soe, for you to Heau’n for Phraze I runne,
    And ransacke all APOLLO’S golden Treasure;
      Yet by my Troth, this Foole his Loue obtaines,
      And I lose you, for all my Wit and Paines.

27

    Is not Loue here, as ’tis in other Clymes,
    And diff’reth it, as doe the seu’rall Nations? 
    Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times,
    Or in this land alt’reth with the Fashions? 
    Or haue our Passions lesser pow’r then theirs,
    Who had lesse Art them liuely to expresse? 
    Is Nature growne lesse pow’rfull in their Heires,
    Or in our Fathers did the more transgresse? 
    I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true,
    As any Mans, that Memory can boast,
    And my Respects and Seruices to you
    Equall with his, that loues his Mistris most: 
      Or Nature must be partiall in my Cause,
      Or onely you doe violate her Lawes.

36

Cupid coniured

    Thou purblind Boy, since thou hast been so slacke
    To wound her Heart, whose Eyes haue wounded me,
    And suff’red her to glory in my Wracke,
    Thus to my aid, I lastly coniure thee;
    By Hellish Styx (by which the THUND’RER sweares)
    By thy faire Mothers vnauoided Power,
    By HECAT’S Names, by PROSERPINE’S sad Teares,
    When she was rapt to the infernall Bower,
    By thine own loued PSYCHES, by the Fires
    Spent on thine Altars, flaming vp to Heau’n;
    By all the Louers Sighes, Vowes, and Desires,
    By all the Wounds that euer thou hast giu’n;
      I coniure thee by all that I haue nam’d,
      To make her loue, or CUPID be thou damn’d.

48

    Cupid, I hate thee, which I’de haue thee know,
    A naked Starueling euer may’st thou be,
    Poore Rogue, goe pawne thy Fascia and thy Bow,
    For some few Ragges, wherewith to couer thee;
    Or if thou’lt not, thy Archerie forbeare,
    To some base Rustick doe thy selfe preferre,
    And when Corne’s sowne, or growne into the Eare,
    Practise thy Quiuer, and turne Crow-keeper;
    Or being Blind (as fittest for the Trade)
    Goe hyre thy selfe some bungling Harpers Boy;
    They that are blind, are Minstrels often made,
    So may’st thou liue, to thy faire Mothers Ioy: 
      That whilst with MARS she holdeth her old way,
      Thou, her Blind Sonne, may’st sit by them, and play.