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For the love of poetry
WS of Stratford-
Upon-Avon
Let them say more
O let me true in love
So is it not with me
As with that Muse
But truly write
Stirred by a painted beauty
To his verse
That like of hearsay well
And then believe me
Who heaven itself
For ornament doth use
My love is as fair
And every fair
With his fair doth rehearse
Sonnet XXI
I will not praise
As any mother's child
Making a couplement
Of proud compare
Though not so bright
With sun and moon
With earth and sea's rich gems
That purpose not to sell
As those gold candles
With April's first-born flowers
And all things rare
Fixed in heaven's air
That heaven's air in
This huge rondure hems