Into these Loues, who but for Passion lookes,
At this first sight, here let him lay them by,
And seeke else-where, in turning other Bookes,
Which better may his labour satisfie.
No farre-fetch’d Sigh shall euer wound my Brest,
Loue from mine Eye a Teare shall neuer wring,
Nor in Ah-mees my whyning Sonnets drest,
(A Libertine) fantastickly I sing:
My Verse is the true image of my Mind,
Euer in motion, still desiring change;
And as thus to Varietie inclin’d,
So in all Humors sportiuely I range:
My Muse is rightly of the English straine,
That cannot long one fashion intertaine.