Poet's Choice

Only of wantonness and wit.

At Love's entreaty, such a one

Nature made, but with her beauty

She hath framed a heart of stone,

So as Love, by ill destiny,

Must die for her whom Nature gave him,

Because her darling would not save him.

But Time, which Nature doth despise,

And rudely gives her love the lie,

Makes hope a fool and sorrow wise,

His hands doth neither wash nor dry,

But, being made of steel and rust,