In Mars his liverie, prauncing in the presse.
What now sir foole said he (I would no lesse)
Looke heere I say; I lookt, and Stella spide:
Who hard by through a window sent forth light;
My hart then quake, then daz’led were my eyes.
One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight,
No Trumpet sound I heard, nor freendly cries;
My foe came on, and beate the ayre for mee,
Till that her blush, taught me my shame to see.
Because I breathe not love to every one,