A mysteree to poetes of eache age:
That payn flowen freelye from penne to page,
While joye quaffen fulle inspirationnes inke
An it were oure teares wypinge, as theye winke
From sorrowes eyen ee so destroyen a poeme
Fuelléd bye weepinge. The Muse seeken a home
Inne a harte thattes emptye, not joy fulle:
The emptye harte alone she beene able
Bye her owne whimseye to controlle complete,
For anguished lamentationnes replete.
For joye beene mute; it hath nothinge to saye;
While agony wille weepen and wayl alle daye.
Joye beene conveyd--in touche of an hande,
but sorwes scenes of passionne beene more grande.