Classic Poem

Like as the Lute delights or els dislikes,
As is his art that playes vpon the same:
So sounds my Muse according as she strikes
On my heart-strings high tun'd vnto her same
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
VVhich here I yeeld in lamentable wise:
A wayling descant on the sweetest ground,
VVhose due reports giue honor to her eyes.
Else harsh my stile, vntunable my Muse,
Hoarce sounds the voyce that prayseth not her name;
If any pleasing relish here I vse,
Then iudge the world her beauty giues the same.
For no ground els could make the Musicke such,
Nor other hand could giue so true a touch.