Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,
       As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds,
       Am now enforst a far vnfitter taske,
       For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
       And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
       Whose prayses hauing slept in silence long,
       Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
       To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithfull loues shall moralize my song.

Helpe then, O holy Virgin chiefe of nine,
        Thy weaker Nouice to performe thy will,
        Lay forth out of thine euerlasting scryne
        The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
        Of Faerie knights and fairest Tanaquill,
        Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
        Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill,
That I must rue his vndeserued wrong:
O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong.

And thou most dreaded impe of highest Ioue,
        Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart
        At that good knight so cunningly didst roue,
        That glorious fire it kindled in his hart,
        Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart,
        And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde:
        Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart,
        In loues and gentle iollities arrayd,
After his murdrous spoiles and bloudy rage allayd.
And with them eke, O Goddesse heauenly bright,
        Mirrour of grace and Maiestie diuine,
        Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light
        Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine,
        Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne,
        And raise my thoughts too humble and too vile,
        To thinke of that true glorious type of thine,
        The argument of mine afflicted stile:
The which to heare, vouchsafe, O dearest dred a-while.