Sonnet IX

But where they may returne with Honor's grace,
Where Venus follies can no harbour winne,
But chased are, as worthlesse of the face,
Or stile of Love, who hath lasciuious beene.
Our hearts are subiect to her Sonne; where sinne
Never did dwell, or rest one minutes space;
What faults he hath in her did still beginne,
And from her breast he suck'd his fleeting pace.
If Lust be counted Love 'tis falsely nam'd,
By wickednesse, a fairer glosse to set
Upon that Vice, which else makes men asham'd
In the owne Phrase to warrant, but beget
This Childe for Love, who ought like Monster borne
Be from the Court of Love, and Reason torne.