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| SONNET 21 |
| 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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