Classic Poem

When I did thinke to write of warre,
And martiall cheefden's of the field:
Diana did inforce to yeeld
My muse to prayse the Westerne starre:
But Pallas did my purpose barre:
My muse as too weake it to weeld.

Elizaes prayses were too hye,
Diuinest wittes haue done their best,
And yet the most haue proued least:
Such was her sacred maiestie,
Loues pride grace to virginitie:
Oh could my muse in her prayse rest!

Venus directed me to write
The prayse of peerlesse bewties wonder,
A theame more fit for voyce of thunder:
Parthenophe , from whose eyes bright,
Ten thousand graces dar'de my might,
And will'd me fiue degrees write vnder.

But yet her fancie wrought so much,
That my muse did her prayse aduenter,
Wherein of yore it durst not enter:
And now her bewtie giues that tuche,
Vnto my muse, in number suche:
Which makes me more, and more repent her.