"Ne let Elisa, royall shepheardesse, 225 The praises of my parted* love envy, For she hath praises in all plenteousnesse Powr'd upon her, like showers of Castaly, By her owne shepheard, Colin, her own shepheard, That her with heavenly hymnes doth deifie, 230 Of rusticke Muse full hardly to be betterd.

Which in the conquests of your beautie bost, Wherewith your lovers feeble eyes you feed, But sterve their harts, that needeth nourture most, Prepare your selves to march amongst his host, 40 And all the way this sacred hymne do sing, Made in the honor of your soveraigne king.

That as I earst in praise of thine owne name, So now in honour of thy mother deare An honourable hymne I eke should frame, 10 And, with the brightnesse of her beautie cleare, The ravisht hearts of gazefull men might reare To admiration of that heavenly light, From whence proceeds such soule-enchanting might.