| 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, | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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 hear-say well; | |
| I will not praise that purpose not to sell. |