XXI

    So is it not with me as with that Muse¹, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament² 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 gems³, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems⁴. 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 hearsay⁵ well； I will not praise that purpose not to sell.