So is it not with me as with that muse,Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven it self for ornament doth use,And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compareWith 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 brightAs those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:

Let them say more that like of hearsay well,I will not praise that purpose not to sell.