A witless gallant a young wench that wooed by Michael Drayton Lyrics

A witless gallant, a young wench that wooed
(Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move),
Entreated me, as e'er I wished his good
To write him but one sonnet to his love;
When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot,
Poured 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,
Who 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 wit and pains.