Her name ere this a mirror should haue been
Lim’d out in golden verse to th’eyes of men:
But my sad muse, though willing, yet too weak
In her rude rymes Elizae’s worth to speak,
Must yeeld to those, whose muse can mount on high,
And with braue plumes can clime the loftie skie.
As thus I sat all sad vpon the greene
In contemplation of that royall queene,
And thinking, what a Mirrour she might be
Vnto all future time’s posteritie,