Pride of our English Ladies, neuer match'te,
Great fauourer of Phoebus of-spring,
In whom euen Phoebus is most florishing,
Muses cheefe comfort, of the muses hatch'te:
On whom Vrania hath so long time watch'te,
In fames rich forte with crowne triumphing,
Of laurell euer-greene in lustie spring,
After thy mortall pilgrimage dispatch'te,
Vnto those Planettes where thou shal't haue place
With thy late sainted brother to giue light:
And with harmonious Sphaeres to turne in race,
Voutch-safe sweet Lady with a forhead bright
To shine on this poore muse, whose first borne fruite
That you of right would take, she maketh suite.