Vouchsafe then thou great king of heau’n, the heau’nly drops t’infuse
Of sacred iuyce into my pen, giue strength vnto my muse
To mount aloft with powerfull wings, and let her voice be strong,
That she may smite the golden starres with sound of her great song:
When loue-borne Phœbus fierie steeds about the world had bin,
And wearied with their yearely taske, had taken vp their inne
Farre in the south, when cold had nipt the hawthorne’s rugged rinde,
And liuely sap of summer sweet, from blast of blustring winde
Had sunken downe into the roote, whose thornie browes besprent
With frostie dew, did hang their heads, and summer’s losse lament;