But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.
Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame.
My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so:
That my owne writings like bad servants showe
My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;
That Plato I reade for nought, but if he tame
Such coltish giers; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires: lest els that friendly foe
Great expectation were a traine of shame.
For since mad March great promise made to mee,