Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde,
With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so,
That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,
Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide;
And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde,
Striving abroade, a forraging to goe,
Untill by your inspiring I might know,
How their blacke banners might be best displaid.
But now I meane no more your helpe to trye.
Nor other sugering of speech to prove,
But on her name uncessantly to cry.
For let me but name her whom I doe love,
So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit,
That I well finde no eloquence like it.