LXXXIV

    Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise,-that you alone, are you？ In whose confine immured¹ is the store Which should example where your equal grew. Lean penury² within that pen doth dwell That to his subject lends not some small glory； But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies⁴ his story, Let him but copy what in you is writ³, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings⁵ add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.