My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, Wherewith whole showls of Martyrs once did burn, Besides their other flames? Doth Poetry Wear Venus livery? only serve her turn? Why are not Sonnets made of thee? and layes Upon thine Altar burnt? Cannot thy love Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove Out-strip their Cupid easily in flight? Or, since thy wayes are deep, and still the fame, Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose Than that, which one day, Worms, may chance refuse?