YOu whom the World admires for rarest style, You which have sung the Sonnets of True Love, Upon my maiden verse with favour smile! Whose weak-penned Muse, to fly too soon doth prove: Before her feathers have their full perfection, She soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection.
You whose deep wits, ingine, and industry, The everlasting palm of praise have won! You paragons of learned Poesy Favour these mists! which fall before you sun: Intentions leading to a more effect, If you them grace but with your mild aspect.
And Thou, the Genius of my ill tuned note! Whose beauty urgèd hath my rustic vein, Through mighty oceans of despair to float; That I in rhyme thy cruelty complain: Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad! Nuntiates of Woe, with sorrow being clad. W. Smith.
CHLORIS.
SONNET I.
COurteous Calliope, vouchsafe to lend Thy helping hand to my untunèd Song! And grace these Lines, which I to write pretend, Compelled by love which doth poor Corin wrong. And those, thy sacred Sisters, I beseech, Which on Parnassus' Mount do ever dwell, To shield my country Muse and rural speech By their divine authority and spell. Lastly to thee, O Pan, the shepherds' King; And you swift footed Dryades, I call! Attend to hear a swain in verse to sing Sonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall! O Chloris, weigh the task I undertake! Thy beauty, subject of my Song I make.