by Shakespeare
So it is not with me, as with that Muse,
Stirr'd by painted beauty to his verse,
Who heavan 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-lorn flowers and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is fair
As any mother's child thought not so bright
As those golden candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise, purpose not to sell.
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