by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
      O is it not with me as with that Muse
      Stirred 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 airs 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 fixed in heaven's air:
      Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
      I will not praise that purpose not to sell.