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| So is it not with me as with that Muse, | 1 |
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| Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, |
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| Who heaven itself for ornament doth use |
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| And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, |
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| Making a couplement of proud compare' | 5 |
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| With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, |
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| With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, |
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| That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. |
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| O! let me, true in love, but truly write, |
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| And then believe me, my love is as fair | 10 |
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| As any mother's child, though not so bright |
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| As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: |
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 Let them say more that like of hearsay well; |
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| I will not praise that purpose not to sell. |
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