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!