Like as the lute delights

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.