The Curious Wits, Seeing Dull Pensiuenesse Bewray It Self In My Long-Settl'D Eies Whence Those Same Fumes Of Melancholy Rise, With Idle Paines And Missing Ayme Do Guesse. Some, That Know How My Spring I Did Addresse, Deem That My Muse Some Fruit Of Knowledge Plies; Others, Because The Prince My Seruice Tries, Thinke That I Think State Errours To Redress: But Harder Iudges Iudge Ambitions Rage: Scourge Of Itselfe, Still Climbing Slipperie Place: Holds My Young Brain Captiu'D In Golden Cage. O Fooles, Or Ouer-Wise. Alas, The Race Of All My Thoughts Hath Neither Stop Nor Start But Only Stellaes Eyes And Stellaes Heart.