Thy soul from brooding, whilst the time of scorn
Goes by, and we attain the boon we crave.
Unto the ice that by degrees doth burn,
Unto the fire that chills beyond degree,
What bard shall place degree thereto, or bourne?
Vainly he wearies, vainly watcheth he
Who, out of favour, yet Love's web doth seek
To cut according to his fantasy;
He is, though strong in Love, in fortune weak.