The poem
Some lovers speak when they their Muses entertain, Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires: Of force of heav'nly beams, infusing hellish pain: Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing fires.
Some one his song in Jove, and Jove's strange tales attires, Broidered with bulls and swans, powdered with golden rain; Another humbler wit to shepherd's pipe retires, Yet hiding royal blood full oft in rural vein.
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest style affords, While tears pour out his ink, and sighs breathe out his words: His paper pale despair, and pain his pen doth move.
I can speak what I feel, and feel as much as they, But think that all the map of my state I display, When trembling voice brings forth that I do Stella love.