The poem
Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me: I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill, Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Or seek heav'n's course, or heav'n's inside to see: Why shouldst thou toil our thorny soil to till? Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be: Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will.
But thou wouldst needs fight both with love and sense, With sword of wit, giving wounds of dispraise, Till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence:
For soon as they strake thee with Stella's rays, Reason thou kneel'dst, and offeredst straight to prove By reason good, good reason her to love.