Why are you, Calliope, embroidered with letters of gold?

Calliope,

As ye may se,

Regent is she

Of poetes al,

Whiche gaue to me

The high degre

Laureat to be

Of fame royall;

Whose name enrolde

With silke and golde

I dare be bolde

Thus for to were.

Of her I holde

And her housholde;

Though I waxe olde

And somdele sere,

Yet is she fayne,

Voyde of disdayn,

Me to retayne

Her seruiture:

With her certayne

I wyll remayne,

As my souerayne

Moost of pleasure,

Maulgre touz malheureux.