to hold better band, yet is it more tedious to a writer, being it binds him to the band of two foures intertangled, which if he obserue not, it is no huitaine or staffe of eight, but fals into the first proportion, making two quadreins. To the learned I only write, in whom is my chiefest hope, for that they be learned, a cause sufficient not to doubt any enuious construction, being a vice not proper to their good education: whom if I haue pleasured, I craue but their good word for my good will; if otherwise, their pardon for my paines. Farewell. THE INDVCTION. My muse, that mongst meane birds whilome, did waue her flaggie wing, And cuckow-like of _Castae’s_ wrongs, in rustick tunes did sing, Now with the morne’s cloud climing lark must mount a pitch more hie, And like Ioue’s bird with stedfast lookes outbraue the sunne’s bright eie: Yea she, that whilome begger-like her beggers ape did sing, Which iniur’d by the guilt of time to light she durst not bring: In stately stile tragedian-like with sacred furie fed, Must now record the tragicke deeds of great _Heröes_ dead, Vouchsafe then thou great king of heau’n, the heau’nly drops t’infuse Of sacred iuyce into my pen, giue strength vnto my muse To mount aloft with powerfull wings, and let her voice be strong, That she may smite the golden starres with sound of her great song: When loue-borne Phœbus fierie steeds about the world had bin, And wearied with their yearely taske, had taken vp their inne Farre in the south, when cold had nipt the hawthorne’s rugged rinde, And liuely sap of summer sweet, from blast of blustring winde Had sunken downe into the roote, whose thornie browes besprent With frostie dew, did hang their heads, and summer’s losse lament; My limbes benumb’d with vnkind cold, my life-blood waxing chill, As was my wont I walked forth to ease me of such ill: But when I came in fields abroad, and view’d the wastefull spight Of wrathfull winter, grieu’d I was to see so sad a sight: The shadie woods, in which the birds to build their neasts were seene, Whose wauing heads in aire shot vp were crown’d with youthfull greene: Now clad in coate of motlie hue did maske in poore array, Rough Boreas with his blustering blasts had blowen their leaues away: In stead of blossomes on the boughes, the spring whilome begun, Which through the leaues did seeme to laugh vpon the summer’s sunne, Now nought but hoarie frost was seene, each branch teares downe did send, Whose dewie drops on ysiccles vpon each bough depend: The mistresse of the woods quaint quire, the warbling Philomele, That wont to rauish with delight, th’inhabitants, that dwell About the greene wood side, forgot the layes she sung before, For griefe of summer’s golden losse she now could sing no more: