Poem by Michael Drayton

Sonnet 21. A Witless Gallant

A witless gallant a young wench that woo'd
(Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move),
Entreated me, as e'er I wish'd his good,
To write him but one sonnet to his love;
When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
Pour'd out what first from quick invention came,
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his wit that was to use the same;
But with my verses he his mistress won,
Which doted on the dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for phrase I run,
And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure;
    Yet by my froth this fool his love obtains, 
    And I lose you for all my love and pains.

1. Sonnet 57. You Best Discern'd of my Mind's Inward Eyes
2. Sonnet 47. In Pride of Wit
3. Sonnet 38. Sitting Alone, Love
4. Sonnet 55. My Fair
5. Sonnet 25. O Why should Nature Niggardly Restrain

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