Butt wher they may returne with honors grace
Wher Venus follyes can noe harbour winn
Butt chased ar as worthles of the face
Or stile of love who hath lasiviouse binn.

Oure harts ar subject to her sunn; wher sinn
Never did dwell, or rest one minutes space;
What faults hee hath, in her, did still begin,
And from her brest hee suckd his fleeting pace,

If lust bee counted love t'is faulcely nam'd
By wikednes a fayrer gloss to sett
Upon that vice, which els makes men asham'd
In the owne frase to warrant butt begett

This childe for love, who ought like monster borne
Bee from the court of Love, and reason torne.