Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.
If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,
Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;
If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,
A loathing of all lose unchastitie;
Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.
You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the rybs of old Parnassus flowes,
And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growes