Other sorts of Poetry almost have we none, but that lyrical kind of Songs and Sonnets: which, Lord, if he gave us so good minds, how well it might be employed, and with how heavenly fruit, both private and public, in singing the praises of the immortal beauty, the immortal goodness of that God who giveth us hands to write and wits to conceive; of which we might well want words, but never matter; of which we could turn our eyes to nothing, but we should ever have new budding occasions. But truly many of such writings as come under the banner of unresistible love, if I were a Mistress, would never persuade me they were in love; so coldly they apply fiery speeches, as men that had rather read lovers' writings, and so caught up certain swelling phrases, which hang together like a man which once told me the wind was at Northwest, and by South, because he would be sure to name winds enough, than that in truth they feel those passions, which easily (as I think) may be bewrayed by that same forcibleness, or Energia (as the Greeks call it), of the writer. But let this be a sufficient though short note, that we miss the right use of the material point of Poesy.