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As each unwilling portal yields him way,

Through little vents and crannies of the place

The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,

And blows the smoke of it into his face,

Extinguishing his conduct in this case.

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,

Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch,

And being lighted, by the light he spies

Lucretia’s glove wherein her needle sticks.

He takes it from the rushes where it lies,

And gripping it, the needle his finger pricks,

As who should say ‘This glove to wanton tricks

Is not inured. Return again in haste.

Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.’

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;

He in the worst sense consters their denial.

The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him

He takes for accidental things of trial,

Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,

Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let

Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend the time,

Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring

To add a more rejoicing to the prime,

And give the sneapèd birds more cause to sing.

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