On Verses on her

There is no sense that I should write a line
On such a beauty, Cynthia, as thine ;
I am no poet, and it is in vain,
Since thou exceed'st all worth, to strive to feign :
On my poor lines the Thespian well ne'er dropt.
From me the fount of Helicon is stopt :
I ne'er was so ill bred as to invoke
Apollo, and to sacrifice with smoke
Of coals, or billets, nor yet am I able.
In the west-end of Cardinal Wolsey's stable,
To keep a Pegasus, a horse that might
Advance my muse by his swift nimble flight :
Yet like a man opprest with grief and cares,
Law-suits, and troubles, so with me it fares :
If he but take a lusty jovial drink,
Forgets all sorrows, so if I but think
On thee, or thy chaste beauty, then my cheer
Is chang'd, no clouds do in my soul appear ;
Thy rare divinest beauty so expels
With joys the horror of ten thousand hells.