Astrophel and Stella: 21

Your words my friend (right healthfull caustiks) blameMy young mind marde, whom Loue doth windlas so,That mine owne writings like bad servants show,My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame:That Plato I reade for nought, but if he tameSuch coltish yeares, that to my birth I owNobler desires, least else that friendly foe,Great expectation, weare a traine of shame.For since mad March great promise made of me,If now the May of my yeares much declyne,What can be hoped my haruest time will be?Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden mine,Dig deepe with learnings spade, now tel me this,Hath this world ought so faire as Stella is?