If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice, well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend, all ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder, which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire, thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful, thunder, which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, o do not love that wrong, to sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue. Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, and scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, when Cythera, all in love forlorn, a longing tarriance for Adonis made, under an osier growing by a brook, a brook where adorn used to cool his spleen, hot was the day; she hotter that did look, for his approach, that often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, and stood stark naked on the brook's green brim, the sun look'd on the world with glorious eye, yet not so wisely as this queen on him.He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood, o Jove, quote she, why was not I a flood! Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle, mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty, brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle, softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty, a lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, none fairer, nor none falser to deface her. Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coined, dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protesting, her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings. She burned with love, as straw with fire flamed, she burned out love, as soon as straw out burneth, she framed the love, and yet she foiled the framing, she bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. Was this a lover or a lecher whether? bad in the best, though excellent in neither. If music and sweet poetry agree, as they must needs, the sister and the brother, then must the love be great twixt thee and me, because thou lovest the one, and I the other.Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch, upon the lute both ravish human sense, Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such, as, passing all conceit, needs no defense. Thou lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound, that Phoebus lute, the queen of music, makes, and I in deep delight am chiefly drowned, when as himself to singing he betakes.