Lord, what a whelp was I! to pule and whine,
To sigh, to sob, and to repine!
For thy sake, Mistress mine!
Thou didst my verse, and thou my Muse despise,
My want debas'd me in thine eyes.
Thou wealth, not wit, didst prize.
Fuddled with wine and love my secrets flew,
20Stretch'd on those racks, I told thee true
What did myself undo.
Well!—plague me not too much, imperious dame,