This Life is but a Laborynth of Ils ,
whose many Turnings so amaze our Mindes:
that out of Them our Wit no issue findes,
But what our Sense commands, our Wit fulfils.

Yet Sense (being tired with deceitfull Ioyes
that fleete as soone as felt ) prouokes the Wit
to cast about those Turnes to pleasure it,
Which findes new Pleasures lin'd with old Annoyes .

So, that when Sense and Wit are at a Stand
in quest of Pleasures vaine variety,
they are so cloid with their sacietie,
That Will is wearyed with her owne Command
Thus, in this Life , or Laborynth of Ils
We toile our Wits in vaine, to please our Wits .