So long the eye doth follow fancy’s game,
Till love hath left the heart in heavy thrall.
Soon may the mind be cast in Cupid’s jail, 35
But hard it is imprisoned thoughts to bail.
Oh! loathe that love whose final aim is lust,
Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason’s light;
The grave of grace, the mole of Nature’s rust,
The wrack of wit, the wrong of every right; 40
In sum, an ill whose harms no tongue can tell;
In which to live is death, to die is hell.