COLIN, my dear and most entire beloved, My Muse audacious stoops her pitch to thee! Desiring that thy patience be not moved By these rude lines, written here you see. Fain would my Muse, whom cruel Love hath wronged, Shroud her love-labours under thy protection! And I myself, with ardent zeal, have longed That thou mightst know, to thee my true affection. Therefore, good COLIN, graciously accept A few sad Sonnets which my Muse hath framed: Though they but newly from the shell are crept, Suffer them not by envy to be blamed! But, underneath the shadow of thy wings, Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things! Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things! Which, chill with cold, to thee for succour creep. They of my study are the budding springs: Longer I cannot them in silence keep. They will be gadding! sore against my mind. But, courteous Shepherd, if they run astray, Conduct them, that they may the pathway find: And teach them how the Mean observe they may! Thou shalt them ken by their discording notes! Their weeds are plain, such as poor shepherds wear; Unshapen, torn, and ragged are their coats: Yet forth they wandering are, devoid of fear. They which have tasted of the Muses' spring, I hope, will smile upon the tunes they sing. W. SMITH. FINIS. _To all Shepherds in general._ YOU 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 learned Poesy Favour these mists! which fall before you 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 rhyme thy cruelty complain: Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad! Nuntiates of Woe, with sorrow being clad. W. SMITH. CHLORIS. SONNET I.