Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse

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 useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compareWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,With April's first-born flowers, and all things rareThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.O, let me, true in love, but truly write,And then,

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