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Calliope, vouchsafe to lend

Thy helping hand to my untunèd 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.