Like as the Lute that ioyes or els dislikes,
As is his arte that playes vpon the same:
So sounds my Muse according as she strikes,
On my hart strings high tun’d vnto her fame.
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
Which heere I yeeld in lamentable wise,
A wailing deskant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports giue honor to her eyes.
Els harsh my style, vntunable my Muse,
Hoarce sounds the voyce that prayseth not her name:
If any pleasing realish heere I vse,
Then iudge the world her beautie giues the same.
O happie ground that makes the musique such,
And blessed hand that giues so sweete a tuch.