The poem
THey that in course of heauenly spheares are skild, To euery planet point his sundry yeare: in which her circles voyage is fulfild, as Mars in three score yeares doth run his spheare So since the winged God his planet cleare, began in me to moue, one yeare is spent: the which doth longer vnto me appeare, then al those fourty which my life outwent. Then by that count, which louers books inuent, the spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes: which I haue wasted in long languishment, that seemd the longer for my greater paines. But let me loues fayre Planet short her wayes this yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.