Verses giuen the Quenes highnesse at windsor.

MY penne doeth quake in tremblyng hande,
as harte discouraged weart,
My mewes me failes, my sences blushe,
my skill creepes backe for feare:
To write the verse that duetie crau's,
O Lodestarre clere of light,
Whose beautie dims the Son by daie, & darks the Moone by night.
Thou wretched ma call home those works, ye carelesse bore thy name
And sift the purest of those lines, this verse of newe to frame:
You Poets all of this ripe age, who hath the cunnyng braines,
Come moist my drie & dulled pen, with your sweete flowyng vaines.
For I write not of yearthly mould, this is some sparke deuine,
The selfsame Goddes as I gesse, pleased Parris eyne:
Yea Pallas witte, and Iunoes praise, this Venus leades awaie,
Th'aple of gold she hath possest, in scorne of who saie naie.
Praise not your ladies where she comes, ye courtiers for your liues,
Boste not in little flowryng Nimphs, in maids ne married wiues:
Except you minde to answere this, before hye Ioue in Skyes,
Whose Iustice will giue sentence sure, against your blinded eyes.
A sacred Queene, a stately port, what neede I cloke it more,
Hath won the fame of beauties boste, when she least lokes therefore:
And least acount of beautie makes, for loe full deepe in breste,
Her vertues blome, her gifts doe budde, her heauenly graces rest.
Whiche is the marke my pen shotes at, if witte maie bring about,
To spread her sutche eternall fame, as worlde shall nere wipe out:
A further gift shall tyme vnfolde, if this maie fauour finde,
As statelier stile, and higher verse, shall serue the makers minde.