Classic Poem

My Muse may well grudge at my heav'nly joy,
If still I force her in sad rhymes to creep:
She oft hath drunk my tears, now hopes t'enjoy
Nectar of mirth, since I Fove 's cup do keep.
Sonnets be not bound 'prentice to annoy;
Trebles sing high, as well as bases deep;
Grief but Love's winter liv'ry is; the boy
Hath cheeks to smile, as well as eyes to weep.
Come then, my Muse, show thou height of delight
In well-raised notes; my pen the best it may
Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white.
Cease eager Muse, peace pen, for my sake stay,
I give you here my hand for truth of this,
Wise silence is best music unto bliss.