"Darke is the day, when Phœbus face is shrowded, And weaker sights may wander soone astray: But when they see his glorious raies unclowded, With steddy steps they keepe the perfect way: So while this Muse in forraine landes doth stay, Invention weepes, and pens are cast aside, The time, like night, depriv’d of chearefull day, And few do write, but ah! too soone may slide. Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide, And with thy wit illustrate Englands fame, Dawnting thereby our neighboures auncient pride, That do for poesie challendge cheefest name. So we that live, and ages that succeede, With great applause thy learned works shall reede.Ah! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine, Pyping to shepherds thy sweete roundelaies, Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine, Heroick deedes of past or present daies, Or whether in thy lovely mistris praise Thou list to exercise thy learned quill, Thy Muse hath got such grace, and power to please, With rare invention, bewtified by skill, As who therein can ever joy their fill? O therefore let that happy Muse proceede To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill, Where endles honor shall be made thy meede: Because no malice of succeeding daies Can rase those records of thy lasting praise."