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-hatched orphan things.

    II

    Give warmth to these young-hatched 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 wand’ring are devoid of fear. 
    They which have tasted of the muses’ spring,
    I hope will smile upon the tunes they sing.

    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 your 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 urged hath my rustic vein
      Through mighty oceans of despair to float,
      That I in rime thy cruelty complain: 
    Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad
    Nuntiates of woe with sorrow being clad.

CHLORIS

    I

    Courteous Calliope, vouchsafe to lend
      Thy helping hand to my untuned song,
      And grace these lines which I to write pretend,
      Compelled by love which doth poor Corin wrong. 
    And those thy sacred sisters I beseech,
      Which on Parnassus’ mount do ever dwell,
      To shield my country muse and rural speech
      By their divine authority and spell.