Your words, my friend, right healthful caustics, blame
My young mind marred, whom love doth windlass so
That mine own writings, like bad servants, show
My wits quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;
That Plato I read for naught but if he tame
Such coltish years; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires, lest else that frindly foe,
Great expectation, wear a train of shame;
For since mad March great promise made of me,
If now the May of my years much decline,
What can be hoped my harvest-time will be?
Sure, you say well: "Your wisdom's golden mine
Dig deep with learning's spade." Now tell me this--
Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is?