Some Act Of Love'S Bound To Reherse, I Thought To Bind Him, In My Verse: Which When He Felt, Away (Quoth He) Can Poets Hope To Fetter Me? It Is Enough, They Once Did Get Mars, And My Mother, In Their Net: I Weare Not These My Wings In Vaine. With Which He Fled Me: And Againe, Into My Rimes Could Ne're Be Got By Any Art. Then Wonder Not, That Since, My Numbers Are So Cold, When Love Is Fled, And I Grow Old.