In the same strain of Roland will I tell

  Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,

  On whom strange madness and rank fury fell,

  A man esteemed so wise in former time;

  If she, who to like cruel pass has well

  Nigh brought my feeble wit which fain would climb

  And hourly wastes my sense, concede me skill

  And strength my daring promise to fulfil.