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whom the world admires for rarest style,

You which have sung the sonnets of true love,

Upon my maiden verse with favour smile,

Whose weak-penned muse to fly too soon doth prove;

Before her feathers have their full perfection,

She soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection.

You whose deep wits, ingine, and industry,

The everlasting palm of praise have won,

You paragons of learnèd poesy,

Favour these mists, which fall before your sun,

Intentions leading to a more effect

If you them grace but with your mild aspect.

And thou the Genius of my ill-tuned note,

Whose beauty urgèd hath my rustic vein

Through mighty oceans of despair to float,

That I in rime thy cruelty complain:

Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad

Nuntiates of woe with sorrow being clad.