Crown 9

But where they may return with honour's grace

Where Venus' follies can no harbour win,

But chased, are as worthless of the face

Or style of love, who hath lascivious been.

Our hearts are subjects to her son; where sin

Never did dwell, nor rest one minute's space

What faults he hath, in her did still begin,

And from her breast he sucked his fleeting pace.

If lust be counted love, 'tis falsely named

By wickedness a fairer gloss to set

Upon that Vice, which else makes men ashamed

In the own phrase to warrant, but beget

This child for love, who ought like monster born

Be from the court of Love, and reason torn.