To his Lady, then Mistress Cary

Retired, with purpose your fair worth to praise,
Mongst Hampton shades, and Phoebus' grove of bays,
I pluck'd a branch; the jealous god did frown,
And bade me lay th' usurped laurel down:
Said I wrong'd him, and, which was more, his love.
I answer'd, Daphne now no pain can prove.
Phoebus replied, Bold head, it is not she:
Gary my love is, Daphne but my tree.