Some me will saye there is a kynde of muse
That healps the mynde of eache man to indyte
And some will saye (that oft these Muses vse)
There are but Nyne that euer vsed to wryte
Now of these nyne if I haue hytt on one
I muse what Muse 'tis I haue hytt vpon.

Some poetes wryte there is a heauenly hyll
Wher Pallas keeps: and it Pernassus hyghte
There Muses sit for-sothe, and cut the quyll.
That beinge framde doth hidden fancyes wryte
But all these dames diuyne conceyts do synge
And all theyr penns be of a phœnix winge.

Beleeue me now I neuer sawe the place
Vnless in sleepe I drem'de of suche a thynge
I neauer vewed fayre Pallas in the face
Nor neauer yet could heare the Muses synge
Wherby to frame a fancye in her kynde
Oh no! my muse is of an other mynde.

From Hellicon? no no from Hell she came
she hyghte
Not Pallas but Alass hir Ladyes name
Who neuer calles for dittyes of delyghte.
Her peñ is Payne; and all her matter moane
And pantynge harts she paynts her mynd vpon.

A harte not Harpe is all her instrumet
Whose weakned strynges all out of tune she strayns
And than she strikes a dumpe of discontente
Tyll euery strynge be pluckt in two with paynes
Than in a rage she clapps it vpp in Case:
That you maye see her instruments disgrace.

Her musick is in sum but sorrowes songe
Wher discorde yealds a sound of small delyghte
The dittye is: o lyfe that lastes so longe
To see desyre thus crossed w th despyte
 No faythe on ear th ; alas I know no frende!
 So with a syghe she makes a solem ende.

Vnpleasant is the harmony godd knowes
When out of tune is allmost euery strynge
The sownde vnsweet, it all of sorrow growes
And sadd the muse, that so is fourced to synge
 Yet some do synge that else for woe would crye
 So dothe mye Muse: and so, I sweare, do I.