When I, unto the fameles Devia, now
Utter my song, the emptie winds disperse
My Laboured Numbers, and let noe man know
Their Sound. Ah! there have I, in mightie verse
Had better Audience, of my fellow peeres;
The proud Amintas, did not scorne to bow
And give Attention; nor disdaine to joyne
His verses, with the notes which then were mine.

When hee, the bright Urbana, magnified;
And I my Silvia sung, in Equall Sound;
Silvia, the fairest, mortall ever Eyed;
But ah! my greife! there is my hearts great wound.
Silvia, whom once I almost Deified,
Revolted is; and newer Loves hath found.
Ah faithles Silvia; whether shall I flye
For Passion to enrage my Poesie?

Whither! but to the Eyes, of Silvia false?
And dash my bitter Inke, against their shine;
Defame that glorious feature, which exalts
Her name to wonder, in some verse of mine;
Crie recreant, and recall, what ever calls
Her faire, or worthy. Draw another Line
And what I said, unsay; or shall I keepe
In modest limits? and let Passion Sleepe?

I will not wrong her Name, which gave mine Life,
In a Cleare Mention; She to whom I sung
A Thousand Sonnets, and brought Numbers rife,
To Celebrate her Glories; She who hung
My browes with virgin Chaplets; never greife
Shall Blind my Judgment, with soe foule a wrong;
But Silvia, in my verse, shall keepe a Seat,
Though me, she Scorne, and happilie forget.

Though me She Scorne; and give her love away
To proud Penandro; and the guiltie Crue
Rivall her favours; I may see a Day
She will be glad to grace my love anew;
Meanwhile, in Libertie, I will Assay
My fancie (taught by her) and reaccrue
My Thoughts into their Station; and then Scorne
Her faith retracted, old, and overworne.