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Then.
I sing diuine Astreas praise,
O Muses! help my wittes to raise,
And heaue my Verses higher.

Piers.
Thou needst the truth but plainely tell,
Which much I doubt thou canst not well,
Thou art so oft a lier.

Then.
If in my Song no more I show,
Than Heau'n, and Earth, and Sea do know,
Then truely I haue spoken.

Piers.
Sufficeth not no more to name,
But being no lesse, the like, the same,
Else lawes of truth be broken.

Then.
Then say, she is so good, so faire,
With all the earth she may compare,
Not Momus selfe denying.

Piers.
Compare may thinke where likenesse holds,
Nought like to her the earth enfoldes,
I lookt to finde you lying.



Then.
Astrea sees with Wisedoms sight,
Astrea workes by Vertues might,
And ioyntly both do stay in her.

Piers.
Nay take from them, her hand, her minde,
The one is lame, the other blinde,
Shall still your lying staine her?

Then.
Soone as Astrea shewes her face,
Strait euery ill auoides the place,
And euery good aboundeth.

Piers.
Nay long before her face doth showe,
The last doth come, the first doth goe,
How lowde this lie resoundeth!

Then.
Astrea is our chiefest ioy,
Our chiefest guarde against annoy,
Our chiefest wealth, our treasure.

Piers.
Where chiefest are, three others bee,
To vs none else but only shee;
When wilt thou speake in measure?

Then.
Astrea may be iustly sayd,
A field in flowry Roabe arrayd,
In Season freshly springing.

Piers.
That Spring indures but shortest time,
This neuer leaues Astreas clime,
Thou liest, instead of singing.

Then.
As heauenly light that guides the day,
Right so doth thine each louely Ray,
That from Astrea flyeth.



Piers.
Nay, darknes oft that light enclowdes,
Astreas beames no darknes shrowdes;
How lowdly Thenot lyeth!

Then.
Astrea rightly terme I may,
A manly Palme, a Maiden Bay,
Her verdure neuer dying.

Piers.
Palme oft is crooked, Bay is lowe,
Shee still vpright, still high doth growe,
Good Thenot leaue thy lying.

Then.
Then Piers, of friendship tell me why,
My meaning true, my words should ly,
And striue in vaine to raise her.

Piers.
Words from conceit do only rise,
Aboue conceit her honour flies;
But silence, nought can praise her.

Mary Countesse of Pembroke.