You that do search for every purling spring, <br />Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows, <br />And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows <br />Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring; <br /> <br />You that do dictionary's method bring <br />Into your rimes, running in rattling rows; <br />You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes, <br />With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing, <br /> <br />You take wrong ways: those far-fet helps be such <br />As do bewray a want of inward touch: <br />And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light. <br /> <br />But if (both for your love and skill) your name <br />You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame, <br />Stella behold, and then begin to endite.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xv-you-that-do-search/
