Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaine
Of hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires,
Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine;
Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres.
Some one his songs in Jove and Joves straunge tales attyres,
Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine:
Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres,
Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine.
To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes,
Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe
His paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.
I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,
But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,
When trembling voice brings foorth, that I do Stella love.