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Doubt you to
whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my
breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you,
all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins
and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state
with pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest
treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who
hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth?
Who
womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to
you, all song of praise is due;
Only by you Cupid his
crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet whose step
all sweetness planteth?
Who else, for whom Fame
worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you, to you, all song of
praise is due;
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast whose milk doth passions
nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth
cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth?
Who
long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to
you, all song of praise is due;
Only at you all envy
hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair which, loosest,
fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he
dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath
the voice which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force
but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you, to
you, all song of praise is due;
Only with you not
miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse
these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast
o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all
song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and
endeth.
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