WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE. by Ben Jonson SOME act of Love's bound to rehearse, I thought to bind him in my verse; Which when he felt, Away, quoth he, Can poets hope to fetter me? It is enough they once did get Mars and my mother in their net; I wear not these my wings in vain. With which he fled me, and again Into my rhymes could ne'er be got By any art. Then wonder not That since my numbers are so cold, When Love is fled, and I grow cold.