Act I, Scene 21

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• Shakespeare. 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, 285
  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 290
  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.