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Poem	Because I breathe not love to every one, Nor do not use set colours for to wear, Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan, The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear, "What, he!" say they of me, "now I dare swear He cannot love. No, no, let him alone."— And think so still, so Stella know my mind! Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art; But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, That his right badge is worn but in the heart. Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove: They love indeed who quake to say they love.
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