Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 55

Muses, I oft invoked your holy aid, 
      With choicest flowers my speech to engarland so 
      That it, despised in true but naked show, 
Might win some grace in your sweet grace arrayed; 
And oft whole troops of saddest words I stayed, 
      Striving abroad a-foraging to go, 
      Until by your inspiring I might know 
How their black banner might be best displayed. 
      But now I mean no more your help to try, 
Nor other sugaring of my speech to prove, 
But on her name incessantly to cry; 
For let me but name her whom I do love, 
      So sweet sounds straight mine ear and heart do hit, 
      That I well find no eloquence like it.