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Michael Drayton - Sonnet XXI: A Witless Galant
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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.
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