Book I, Satire 7

GReat is the folly of a feeble braine,
Ore-rulde with loue, and tyrannous disdaine:
For loue, how-euer in the basest brest,
It breedes high thoughts that feed the fancie best.
Yet is he blinde, and leades poore fooles awrie,
While they hang gazing on their mistresse eye.
The loue-sicke Poet, whose importune prayer
Repulsed is with resolute dispaire,
Hopeth to conquer his disdainfull dame,
With publike plaints of his conceiued flame.
Then powres he foorth in patched Sonettings,
His loue, his lust, and loathsome flatterings:
As tho the staring world hāgd on his sleeue,
When once he smiles, to laugh: and when he sighs, to grieue.
Careth the world, thou loue, thou liue, or die?
Careth the world how faire thy faire one be?
Fond wit-wal that wouldst lode thy wit-lesse head
With timely hornes, before thy Bridall bed.
Then can he terme his durtie ill-fac'd Bride
Ladie and Queene, and virgin deified:
Be shee all sootie-blacke, or berie browne,
Shee's white as morrows milk, or flakes new blowne.
And tho she be some dunghill drudge at home,
Yet can he her resigne some refuse roome
Amids the well-knowne stars: or if not there,
Sure will he saint her in his Calendere.