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Poem	I never stoop'd so low, as they Which on an eye, cheeke, lip, can prey, Seldom to them, which soare no higher Than vertue or the minde to'admire, For sense, and understanding may Know, what gives fuell to their fire: My love, though silly, is more brave, For may I misse, when ere I crave, If I know yet, what I would have. If that be simply perfectest Which can by no way be exprest But Negatives, my love is so. To All, which all love, I say no. If any who deciphers best, What we know not, our selves, can know, Let him teach mee that nothing; This As yet my ease, and comfort is, Though I speed not, I cannot misse.
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