Sonnet 55

MVses, I oft haue crau'd your holy ayde,
With choisest flowres, my speech t'engarland so,
That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show,
Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide;
And oft whole troupes of saddest words I said,
Striuing abroade, a forraging to goe,
Vntill by your inspiring I might know,
How the blacke banners might be best displaid.
But I meane now no more your helpe to proue.
No other sugering of speech to try,
But on her name vncessantly to cry.
For let me but name her whom I doe loue,
So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit,
That I well finde no eloquence to it.