When life was newly made, and I was young,
I vow'd to follow where that Poet led
that charm'd the girls with skilful dancing tongue,
and every night saw someone new in bed.
For envy's hand did hold mine aching Pen;
mine Ink was spill'd in vain until the Sun;
yet did I lack those marks of greater men.
I follow'd on, to Marvell what they'd Donne.
How well my work frustration doth present!
How long, O Muse, until I find thy Site
wherein thy humble Bard may pitch his Tent?
It seem'd Eternity the other night.
O Reader, scan this Riddle I have made:
For wherefore might this Poet not get Laid?