First Sonnet.

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my brest surchargd with musick lendeth?
To you, to you all song of praise is due,
Onely in you my song begins and endeth.

Who hath the eyes which marrie state with pleasure,
Who keepes the key of Natures chiefest treasure:
To you, to you, all song of praise be due,
Onely for you the heavens forget all measure.

Who hath the lips where wit with fairenes raigneth,
Who womenkinde at once both decks and staineth:
To you, to you all song of praise is due,
Onely by you Cupid his crowne maintaineth.

Who hath the feet whose steps all sweetnes planteth,
Who els for whom Fame worthie trumpets wanteth:
To you, to you all song of praise be due,
Onely to you her scepter Venus granteth.

Who hath the brest whose milk doth patience nourish,
Whose grace is such, that when it chides doth cherish:
To you, to you all song of praise be due,
Onely through you the tree of life doth floorish.

Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth
Who long hid beautie with encrease renueth:
To you, to you all song of praise is due,
Only at you all envie hopelesse endeth.

Who hath the haire which most loose most fast tieth,
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth:
To you, to you all song of praise be due,
Onely of you the flatterer never lieth.

Who hath the voyce which soule from senses sunders,
Whose force but yours the bolt of beautie thunders?
To you, to you all song of praise is due,
Onely with you no miracles are wonders.

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast orechargd with Musick lendeth?
To you, to you all song of praise is due,
Onely in you my song begins and endeth.