This poem can be found in his anthology 'The Temple' (1633)
When first my lines of heav'nly joys made mention,
Such was their lustre, they did so excel,
That I sought out quaint words and trim investion;
My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell,
Curling with metaphors a plain intention,
Decking the sense, as if it were a sell.
Thousands of notions in my brain did run,
Off'ring their service, if I were not sped:
I often blotted what I had begun;
This was not quick enough, and that was dead.
Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sun,
Much less those joys which trample on his head.
As flames do work and wind, when they ascend,
So did I weave myself into the sense.
But while I bustled, I might hear a friend
Whisper, How wide is all this long pretence!
There is in love a sweetness ready penn'd;
Copy out only that, and save expense.
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