Mote please his fancie, nor him cause t’ abide:
His choicefull sense with every change doth flit.
No common things may please a wavering wit.
To the gay gardins his unstaid desire
Him wholly caried, to refresh his sprights:
There lavish Nature, in her best attire,
Powres forth sweete odors and alluring sights;
And Arte, with her contending, doth aspire,
T’ excell the naturall with made delights:
And all, that faire or pleasant may be found,