Fond ladds that spend so fast your poasting time,
(Too poasting time, that spends your time as fast)
To chaunt light toyes, or frame some wanton rime,
Where idle boyes may glut their lustful tast;
Or else with praise to cloath some fleshly slime
With virgins roses and faire lillies chast;
While itching bloods and youthfull cares adore it;
But wiser men, and once yourselues, will most abhorre it.

But thou (most neere, most deare) in this of thine
Ha'st proov'd the Muses not to Venus bound;
Such as thy matter, such thy Muse, divine;
Or thou such grace with Merci's selfe hast found,
That she herself deign's in thy leaues to shine;
Or stol'n from heav'n, thou broughtst this verse to ground,
Which frights the nummed soule with fearefull thunder,
And soone with honied dewes melts it 'twixt ioy and wonder.

Then doe not thou malitious tongues esteeme;
The glasse, through which an envious eye doth gaze,
Can easily make a mole-hill mountaines seeme:
His praise dispraises, his dispraises, praise;
Enough, if best men best thy labours deem,
And to the highest pitch thy merit raise;
While all the Muses to thy song decree
Victorious Triumph, Triumphant Victorie.

My love is lessened and must soon be past.
I never promised such persistency
In its condition. No, the tropic tree
Has not a charter that its sap shall last
Into all seasons, though no Winter cast
The happy leafing. It is so with me:
My love is less, my love is less for thee.
I cease the mourning and the abject fast,
And rise and go about my works again
And, save by darting accidents, forget.
But ah! if you could understand how then
That less is heavens higher even yet
Than treble-fervent more of other men,
Even your unpassion'd eyelids might be wet.

I must feed Fancy. Show me any one
That reads or holds the astrologic lore,
And I'll pretend the credit given of yore;
And let him prove my passion was begun
In the worst hour that's measured by the sun,
With such malign conjunctions as before
No influential heaven ever wore;
That no recorded devilish thing was done
With such a seconding, nor Saturn took
Such opposition to the Lady-star
In the most murderous passage of his book;
And I'll love my distinction: Near or far
He says his science helps him not to look
At hopes so evil-heaven'd as mine are.

You see that I have come to passion's end;
This means you need not fear the storms, the cries,
That gave you vantage when you would despise:
My bankrupt heart has no more tears to spend.
Else I am well assured I should offend
With fiercer weepings of these desperate eyes
For poor love's failure than his hopeless rise.
But now I am so tired I soon shall send
Barely a sigh to thought of hopes forgone.
Is this made plain? What have I come across
That here will serve me for comparison?
The sceptic disappointment and the loss
A boy feels when the poet he pores upon
Grows less and less sweet to him, and knows no cause.