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| Why is my verse so barren of new pride, | 1 |
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| So far from variation or quick change? |
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| Why with the time do I not glance aside |
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| To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? |
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| Why write I still all one, ever the same, | 5 |
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| And keep invention in a noted weed, |
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| That every word doth almost tell my name, |
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| Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? |
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| O! know sweet love I always write of you, |
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| And you and love are still my argument; | 10 |
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| So all my best is dressing old words new, |
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| Spending again what is already spent: |
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 For as the sun is daily new and old, |
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| So is my love still telling what is told. |
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