My heart is lost, what can I now expect,
An evening faire after a drowsie day?
Alas, fond Phant'sie, this is not the way,
To cure a mourning heart, or salve neglect:
They who should helpe, doe me, and helpe reject,
Embracing loose desires, and wanton play,
While wanton base delights doe beare the sway,
And impudency raignes without respect.
O Cupid let thy Mother know her shame,
'T'is time for her to leave this youthfull flame,
Which doth dishonor her, is ages blame,
And takes away the greatnes of thy name.
Thou God of Love, she only Queene of lust,
Yet strives by weakning thee, to be unjst.