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Sonnet XXI
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| So is it not with me as with that Muse | 1
| Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, | 2
| Who heaven itself for ornament doth use | 3
| And every fair with his fair doth rehearse | 4
| Making a couplement of proud compare, | 5
| With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, | 6
| With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare | 7
| That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. | 8
| O' let me, true in love, but truly write, | 9
| And then believe me, my love is as fair | 10
| As any mother's child, though not so bright | 11
| As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: | 12
| Let them say more than like of hearsay well; | 13
| I will not praise that purpose not to sell. | 14
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