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Poem by Ben Jonson
Why I Write Not of Love
SOME act of LOVE'S bound to rehearse, I thought to bind him in my verse : Which when he felt, Away, quoth he, Can poets hope to fetter me ? It is enough, they once did get Mars and my mother, in their net : I wear not these my wings in vain. With which he fled me ; and again, Into my rhymes could ne'er be got By any art : then wonder not, That since, my numbers are so cold, When Love is fled, and I grow cold.
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