Again I redraft each old rhyme,
And form it again, all anew,
Till the weak becomes a strong line
That only great wit can undo.
Straight likeness curls to metaphor,
And conceit paves paths of old skin
That I must replace soon with more,
Lest the first step be aged too thin.
The Metaphysics I ravish
To fill my pen over with wit,
And allude to all; names lavish,
To add some famed credence to it.
I lock sonnets as winding stairs,
That each should rest on the other,
To attain (near) the lofty airs
Where sweet truths are to discover:
Then await my mind to ignite
That final, perfect, solving pun;
Waiting for it, by day and night,
And past the rising of the sun.