- 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.
- With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
- With April’s first-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 is as fair
- As any mother’s child, though 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 that purpose not to sell.