Like as the lute delights, or else dislikes,
As is his art that plays upon the same;
So sounds my muse, according as she strikes
On my heart strings, high-tuned unto her fame.
  Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
Which here I yield in lamentable wise;
A wailing descant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports give honour to her eyes.
  If any pleasing relish here I use,
Then judge, the world, her beauty gives the same;
Else harsh my style, untuneable my muse:
Hoarse sounds the voice that praiseth not her name.
  For no ground else could make the music such,
  Nor other hand could give so sweet a touch.