Ye sacred Fyres and powers aboue, Forge of desires, working loue, Cast downe your eye, cast downe your eye, Vpon a Mayde in miserie.

The Duke my maister is the man I meant, His sonne the Prince, the mayde of meane discent Your selfe, on whom Ascanio so doth doate As for no reason may remoue his thought Your death the Duke determines by vs two, To end the loue betwixt his sonne and you;

Then comes fair May, the fayrest mayde on ground, Decked with all dainties of the season's pryde, And throwing flowres out of her lap around.

Mayde to the he send his sonde And wilneth for to beo the cuth.