Rehearse to me, ye sacred Sisters nine, The golden brood of great Apolloes wit, Those piteous plaints and sorowfull sad tine Which late ye powred forth as ye did sit Beside the silver springs of Helicone, 5 Making your musick of hart-breaking mone!

The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find, Let it likewise your gentle brest inspire With sweet infusion, and put you in mind Of that proud mayd whom now those leaves attyre: Proud Daphne, scorning Phrebus lovely** fyre, On the Thessalian shore from him did flie; For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre, Did her transforme into a laurell-tree.