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