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 /> Ye 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 /> 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 /> 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/astrophel-and-stella-xv/
