Classic Poem

Muses, I oft invoked your hold aid,
With choicest flow'rs my speech t'engarland so
That it, despis'd in true by naked show,
Might win some grace in your sweet grace array'd.

And oft whole troops of saddest words I stay'd,
Striving abroad a-foraging to go;
Until by your inspiring I might know
How their black banner might be best display'd.

But now I mean no more your help to try,
Nor other sug'ring of my speech to prove,
But on her name incessantly to cry:

For let me but name her whom I do love
So sweet sounds straight mine ear and heart do hit,
That I well find no eloquence like it.