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,