Whilst I was free I wrote with high conceit,
And love and beauty raised above their height;
Love, that bereaves us both of brain and heart,
Sorrow and silence doth at once impart.
What hand at once can wield a sword and write
Or battle paint, engaged in the fight?
Who will describe a storm must not be there:
Passion writes well, neither in love nor fear.
Why on the naked boy have poets then
Feathers and wings bestowed, that wants a pen?