But shafts, but cares, but sighs, horrors vnrecured, Were nought esteem’d, if for these paines awarded: (15) My faithfull loue by her might be regarded.
An Heroicall Poeme +
M Y wanton Muse that whilome wont to sing, Faire Beauties praise and Venus sweet delight, Of late had chang’d the tenor of her string, To higher tunes then serue for Cupids fight. (5) Shrill Trumpets sound, sharpe swords & Lances ||(strong, Warre, bloud, and death, were matter of her song.
The God of Loue + by chance had heard thereof, That I was prou’d a rebell to his crowne, Fit words for warre, quoth he, with angry scoffe, (10) A likely man to write of Mars his frowne. Well are they sped whose praises he shall write, Whose wanton Pen can nought but loue indite.
This saide, he whiskt his party-colour’d wings, And downe to earth he comes more swift then thought, (15) Then to my heart in angry haste he flings, To see what change these newes of warres had wrought. He pries, and lookes, he ransacks eu’ry vaine, Yet finds he nought, saue loue, and louers paine.