21

So is it not with me as with that muse

Stirred 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 firstborn flowers and all things ra

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 fixed in heaven’s air

Let them say more that like of hearsay well;

I will not praise that purpose not to sell.