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William Shakespeare - Sonnet 21: “So is it not with me as with that muse…”
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So is it not with me as with that muse,
  Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
  Who heaven it self for ornament doth use,
  And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
  Making a couplement of proud compare
  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,
  As any mother`s child, though not so bright
  As those gold candles fixed in heaven`s air:
    Let them say more that like of hearsay well,
    I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
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