The Sonnets

So is it not with me as with that Muse,

Stirrʼd 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 seaʼs rich gems,

With Aprilʼs first-born flowers, and all things rare,

That heavenʼs 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 motherʼs child, though not so bright

As those gold candles fixʼd in heavenʼs air:

Let them say more that like of hearsay well;

I will not praise that purpose not to sell.