The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness
 Bewray itself in my long-settl'd eyes,
 Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise,
 With idle pains and missing aim do guess.
 Some, that know how my spring I did address,
 Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies;
 Others, because the prince my service tries,
 Think that I think state errors to redress;
 But harder judges judge ambition's rage--
 Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry place--
 Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage.
 O fool or over-wise! alas, the race
 Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start
 But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.