So is it not with me as with that muse, <br />Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, <br />Who heaven it self 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 fixed in heaven's air. <br /> Let them say more that like of hearsay well; <br /> I will not praise that purpose not to sell.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-21-so-is-it-not-with-me-as-with-that-muse/
