My Muse may well grudge at my heav’nly joy,
If still I force her in sad rimes to creep:
She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t’enjoy
Nectar of mirth, since I Jove’s cup do keep.
Sonnets be not bound prentice to annoy:
Trebles sing high, as well as basses deep:
Grief but Love’s winter livery is, the boy
Hath cheeks to smile, as well as eyes to weep.
Come then, my Muse, show thou height of delight
In well-rais’d notes, my pen the best it may
Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white.
Cease, eager Muse; peace, pen, for my sake stay;
I give you here my hand for truth of this:
Wise silence is best music unto bliss.