As she was wont in youth and summer-days;
But if thou algate lust light virelays,
And looser songs of love to underfong,
Who but thyself deserves such poets' praise?
Relieve thy oaten pipes that sleepen long.
THE. The nightingale is sovereign of song,
Before him sits the titmouse silent be;
And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng,
Should Colin make judge of my foolery.
Nay, better learn of them that learned be,