To His Mistres

MY wanton Muse lasciuiously doth sing
Of sportiue loue, of louely dallying.
O beauteous Angell, daine thou to infuse
A sprightly wit, into my dulled Muse.
I inuocate none other Saint but thee,
To grace the first bloomes of my Poesie.
Thy fauours like Promethean sacred fire,
In dead, and dull conceit can life inspire,
Or like that rare and rich Elixar stone,
Can turne to gold, leaden inuention:
Be gracious then, and daine to show in mee,
The mighty power of thy Deitie.
And as thou read'st, (Faire) take compassion,
Force me not enuie my Pigmalion.
Then when thy kindnes grants me such sweet blisse,
I'le gladly write thy metamorphosis.