Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,  That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—  Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,  Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—  I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;  Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,  Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow  Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.  But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;  Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;  And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.  Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,  Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,  "Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."

Loving truly, and wanting to show my love in poetry, So that she, my dear, might find some joy in my suffering— Joy might make her read, reading might help her understand, Understanding might win her pity, and pity might gain her favor— I tried to find the right words to describe my deepest sorrow; Studying clever ideas to entertain her mind, Often reading others' works, hoping they might inspire New and fruitful ideas for my tired mind. But words came out awkwardly, lacking creative support; Creativity, a natural gift, was driven away by forced study; And others' poetic styles seemed unfamiliar to me. Thus, full of ideas but unable to express them, Biting my idle pen, punishing myself out of frustration, "Fool," my Muse said to me, "look into your heart, and write."