William Shakespeare



                   Sonnet 21


                   So is it not with me as with that Muse,
                   Stirr'd 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 air 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 fix'd in heaven's air:

                   Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
                   I will not praise that purpose not to sell.


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