Sonnet 21
b'
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr\\u2019d 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\\u2019s rich gems,
With April\\u2019s first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven\\u2019s 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\\u2019s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix\\u2019d in heaven\\u2019s air:
\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0 Let them say more that like of hearsay well,
\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0 I will not praise that purpose not to sell.