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.

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