| Of the Comodius Stokfysshe of Yselonde |
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| By the moon we sport and play |
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| Tell me, Jove, should she disdain |
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| They all dance in a ring, and sing as followeth |
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| Love's far more powerful than a king |
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| Amidst the mountain Ida's groves |
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| Since you will needs my heart possess |
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| As little lambs lift up their snowy sides |
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| Away, away, flatter no more |
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| All hail fair Phoebus, in thy purple throne |
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And I mus say
That you did a fine
Job writting your poem