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 old. |