Muse XXI
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,
Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Lyrics by William Shakespeare
From
Sonnet 21