Geue place ye louers, here before That spent your bostes and bragges in vaine: My Ladies beawtie passeth more The best of yours,
I dare well sayen, Than doth the sonne, the candle light: Or brightest day, the darkest night. And thereto hath a trothe as iust, As had Penelope the fayre. For what she saith, ye may it trust, As it by writing sealed were. And vertues hath she many moe, Than I with pen haue skill to showe. I coulde rehearse, if that I wolde, The whole effect of natures plaint, When she had lost the perfit mold, The like to whom she could not paint: With wringyng handes howe she dyd cry, And what she said,
I know it,
I. I knowe, she swore with ragyng mynd: Her kingdom onely set apart, There was no losse, by lawe of kind, That could haue gone so nere her hart. And this was chiefly all her payne: She coulde not make the lyke agayne. Sith nature thus gaue her the prayse, To be the chiefest worke she wrought: In faith, me thinke, some better waies On your behalfe might well be sought, Then to compare (as ye haue done) To matche the candle with the sonne.
