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Act I, Scene 21


  • 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.