The poem
The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in my long-settl'd eyes, Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, With idle pains and missing aim do guess. Some, that know how my spring I did address, Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies; Others, because the prince my service tries, Think that I think state errors to redress; But harder judges judge ambition's rage-- Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry place-- Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage. O fool or over-wise! alas, the race Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.