Sonnet 21
The Marlowe Society
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Lyrics
So is it not with me, as with that Muse
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse
Who heav'n itself 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 heav'n'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 fix'd in heav'n's air
Let them say more that like of hearsay well
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell