Your Words, My Friend, (Right Healthfull Caustiks), Blame My Young Mind Marde, Whom Loue Doth Windlas So; That Mine Owne Writings, Like Bad Seruants, Show My Wits Quicke In Vaine Thoughts, In Vertue Lame; That Plato I Read For Nought But If He Tame Such Coltish Yeeres; That To My Birth I Owe Nobler Desires, Lest Else That Friendly Foe, Great Expectation, Wear A Train Of Shame: For Since Mad March Great Promise Made Of Mee, If Now The May Of My Yeeres Much Decline, What Can Be Hop'D My Haruest-Time Will Be? Sure, You Say Well, Your Wisedomes Golden Myne Dig Deepe With Learnings Spade. Now Tell Me This: Hath This World Aught So Fair As Stella Is?