Helpe me to blazeHer worthy praise, Who in her sexe dooth all excell.
(10) Of faire Eliza be your siluer song, That blessed wight: The flower of Virgins, may she flourish long, In Princely plight: For shee is Sirinx daughter, without spot, +(15) Which Pan the Sheepheards God on her begot: So sprung her Grace, Of heauenly race: No mortall blemish may her blot.
See where she sits vpon the grassie greene, (20) O seemely sight: Yclad in scarlet, like a mayden Queene, And Ermines white. +Vpon her head a crimson Coronet, +With Daffadills and Damaske Roses set, (25) Bay leaues + betweene, And Primeroses greene: Embellish the sweet Violet. +
Tell me, haue ye beheld her Angels face, Like Phœbe faire? (30) Her heauenly hauiour, her Princely Grace, Can well compare The red-Rose medled and the white yfere, In eyther cheeke depeincten liuely cheere. Her modest eye, (35) Her Maiestie, Where haue you seene the like but there?
I saw Phoebus thrust out his golden head, On her to gaze: But when he saw how broade her beames did spread: (40) It did him maze.