SOME act of LOVE’S bound to rehearse,
I thought to bind him in my verse :
Which when he felt, Away, quoth he,
Can poets hope to fetter me ?
It is enough, they once did get
Mars and my mother, in their net :
I wear not these my wings in vain.
With which he fled me ; and again,
Into my rhymes could ne’er be got
By any art : then wonder not,
That since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow cold.