Early is late to them that find their sunrise
In seeing thee, my lady.
D.Better speak, sir,
Your poetry to Laura.
N.She is my rose,
The rose of my sun’s garden-ground, and I
The nightingale forlorn that steal to woo her.
D. That’s very well. But I now, by my name,
Should be your moon.
N.I have a verse to fit. [Reciting.