Let me not to the dissolution of false minds
Deny hindrance. Lust is not lust
Which restores when restoration finds,
Or adjusts with the fixer to fix.
O, no, it is a flexible mark
That looks on tempests and escapes;
It is trivial to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s known, his height not taken.
Lust, though peach lips and cheeks, is Time’s fool
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Lust restores with his brief hours and weeks,
And is held within, away from the edge of doom
If this be error and upon me priced
I never writ, not any man ever lusted