So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare,
Whith sun and mon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April ferst-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love in as fair
As any mather’s child, throu not so bright
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise the purpose not to sell.