I

Courteous 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.