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XXI.
So
is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd 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 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 bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's
air:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
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