Must have a dark discolour'd heart,
Of adamant or iron made,
And harden'd long in the smith's glowing furnace.
That man is scorn'd by bright-eyed Venus.
Or else he's poor, and care doth fill his breast;
Or else beneath some female insolence
He withers, and so drags on an anxious life:
But I, like comb of wily bees,
Melt under Venus's warm rays,
And waste away while I behold