Sonnet Cclxxix:

Again I touch thee, vexing instrument, My hard and rarely-mastered Tuscan lute! Though faulty poets of thy worth are mute, We well know why; thy claims o'ertax their skill. I pray thee, raise not up against my will Thy rigid code, whose laws severe confute Masters of mine; but bend my mind to suit Thy winding ways, with love to guide me still! For I would sing once more my lady's praise-- I so long silent, that a wonder grows In her dear eyes to mark my altered ways. Hark! Yonder blast predicts the winter snows, And passes sentence on her trembling rose; Renew with airy flowers her summer days!