Delia: Sonnet 52

LIke as the Lute, that ioyes or els dislikes,
As is his arte that playes vpon the same,
So sounds my Muse, according as shee strikes
On my hart strings, high tun'd vnto 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,
VVhose due reports giue honour to her eyes.
Els harshe my stile, vntunable my Muse,
Hoarce sounds the voyce that praiseth not her name,
If any pleasing relish heere I vse,
Then iudge the world her beauty giues the same.
Ō happy ground that makes the musique such,
And blessed hand that giues so sweet a touch,