Chapter I

Courteous Calliope, vouchsafe to lend
Thy helping hand to my untuned song,
And grace these lines which I to write pretend,
Compelled by love which doth poor Corin wrong.
And those thy sacred sisters I beseech,
Which on Parnassus' mount do ever dwell,
To shield my country muse and rural speech
By their divine authority and spell.
Lastly to thee, O Pan, the shepherds' king,
And you swift-footed Dryades I call;
Attend to hear a swain in verse to sing
Sonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall!
O Chloris, weigh the task I undertake!
Thy beauty subject of my song I make.