Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, br Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee; br Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history: br If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. br br Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame br A nest for praise in my young laurel tree: br In truth I swear, I wish not there should be br Grav'd in mine epitaph a poet's name: br br Ne if I would, could I just title make, br That any laud to me thereof should grow, br Without my plumes from others' wings I take. br br For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, br Since all my words thy beauty doth indite, br And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.