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Poem	In truth, oh Love, with what a boyish kind Thou doest proceed in thy most serious ways: That when the heav'n to thee his best displays, Yet of that best thou leav'st the best behind. For like a child that some fair book doth find, With gilded leaves or colored vellum plays, Or at the most on some find picture stays, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind: So when thou saw'st in Nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight lookst babies in her eyes, In her cheek's pit thou didst thy pitfall set: And in her breast bopeep or couching lies, Playing and shining in each outward part: But, fool, seekst not to get into her heart.
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