Sonnet 69

MY Muse may well grudge at my heauenly ioy,
Yf still I force her thus in woe to weepe:
She oft hath drunke my teares, now hopes t'enioy
Nectar of mirth; since I Ioues Cupid keepe.
Sonnets be not bound Prentice to annoy,
Trebbles sing high, so well as bases deepe:
Griefe but Loues winter liuerie, the boy
Hath cheekes to smile, so well as eyes to weepe.
Come then my Muse, shewe the force of delight
In well raisde noates; my pen the best it may
Shall paint out ioy, though but in blacke and white.
Cease eager Muse, peace pen, for my sake stay.
I giue you heere my hand, for truth of this:
Wise silence is best Musique vnto blisse.