Classic Poem

Collin my deere and most entire beloved,
My muse audatious stoupes hir pitch to thee,
Desiring that thy patience be not moved
By these rude lines, written heere you see,
Faine would my muse whom cruell love hath wronged,
Shroud hir love labors under thy protection,
And I my selfe with ardent zeale have longed,
That thou mightst knowe to thee my true affection.
Therefore good Collin , graciously accept
A few sad sonnets, which my muse hath framed,
Though they but newly from the shell are crept,
Suffer them not by envie to be blamed.
But underneath the shadow of thy wings
Give warmth to these yong-hatched orphan things.
Give warmth to these yong-hatched orphan things,
Which chill with cold to thee for succour creepe,
They of my studie are the budding springs,
Longer I cannot them in silence keepe.
They will be gadding sore against my minde.
But curteous shepheard, if they run astray
Conduct them, that they may the path way finde,
And teach them how, the meane observe they may.
Thou shalt them ken by their discording notes,
Their weedes are plaine, such as poore shepheards weare,
Unshapen, torne and ragged are their cotes,
Yet foorth they wandring are devoid of feare.
They wich have tasted of the muses spring,
I hope will smile upon the tunes they sing.