Which still at me her poisned’st darts doth shoot:
That to excuse it, do the best I can,
Little, I feare, my labour me will boot:
Yet will I speake my troubled heart to ease,
Much to the mind, her selfe it is to please.
5.
O powerfull number, from whose stricter law
Heart-mouing musicke did receiue the ground
Which men to faire ciuilitie did draw
With the brute beast when lawlesse he was found: