Classic Poem

Like as the Lute that joyes or els dislikes,
As is his arte that playes upon the same,
So sounds my Muse according as shee strikes
On my hart strings, high tun'd unto her fame
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
Which heere I yeeld in lamentable wise,
A wailing deskant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports give honour to her eyes.
Els harshe my stile, untunable my Muse,
Hoarce sounds the voyce that praiseth not her name:
If any pleasing relish heere I use,
Then judge the world her beauty gives the same.
O happie ground that makes the musique such,
And blessed hand that gives so sweet a touch.