Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels,
Hath sett defiance;
Fortune and Love have sworne that they were never borne
Of one alliance.

Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire,
Swears he 'gives lawes;
That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some sorrow it:
Fortune no cause.'

Fortune swears 'weakest heartes,' the bookes of Cupide's artes.
'Turn'd with her wheel,
Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture hath place in love.
Aske them that feel!'

This discord it begot atheists, that honour not.
Nature thought good
Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits excel;
Love keepe the wood.

Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye;
Fortunes forlorne.
Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble Truth
In deserts borne.

My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free,
Joan fair and true!
Shee that doth onely move passions of love with Love.
Fortune! adieu!