Prop: 2, L: 11 E: Quicunque &C

Vast was his soul some favorite above Whose bolder pencil made a boy of love A boy he thought him lovers less then boyes Who barter all things for a crop of toyes He wisely too his roving pow'r bestowd— & in unconstant feathers drest the God for now we love anon we hate ye same Fantastick passion varyes all extreams Justly he drew him for his play things darts The little wanton sports with bleeding hearts Justly he drew them to my cost Ive found Unseen they fly & still secure to wound his arms & younger follys fill my heart But he has lost or hid his better part His wings no more their heav'nly burthen bear He sitts an everlasting trouble here My bloud he fires torments my wretched breast Drains all my bones & robs my soul of rest Cease cruell master fly to fuller veines Your slave is wasted with incessant pains Imploy your force on something I alas Am but the shadow of the man I was Why shoud I dy who live but for your use & to your part debauch the virgin muse Who write of nought but arrows flames & eyes & sing your brightest servants to the skyes.