In praise of that mad fit which fooles call Love, I have in th'heat of youth made heretofore, 10 That in light wits did loose affection move; But all those follies now I do reprove, And turned have the tenor of my string, The heavenly prayses of true Love to sing.

Yet heare me; Cease your immoderate prayses: I must tell you You doe adore an Idoll; her black Soule Is tainted as an Apple which the Sunn Has kist to putrifaction; she is (Her proper appelation sounds so foule I quake to speake it) a corrupted peice, A most lascivious prostitute.

But since ye deignd so goodly to relent To me your thrall, in whom is little worth, That little that I am shall all be spent In setting your immortal prayses forth: Whose lofty argument, uplifting me, Shall lift you up unto an high degree.

Deepe in the closet of my parts entyre**, Her worth is written with a golden quill, That me with heavenly fury doth inspire, And my glad mouth with her sweet prayses fill: Which when as Fame in her shril trump shall thunder, Let the world chuse to envy or to wonder.