Then be they close, and they shall none displease,
What idler thing than speake and not be heard?
What harder thing than smart and not to speake?
Peace foolish wit, with wit my wit is marde;
Thus write I while I doubt to write, and wreake
My harmes in ynkes poore losse, perhaps some finde
Stellas great power, that so confus’d my minde.
What may words say? or what may words not say,
Where truth it selfe must speake like flattery?
Within what bounds can one his lyking stay,