1.                     SONNET NO.21

          So is it not with me as with that muse  ,
          Stirr'd  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 complement 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,
          0, 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 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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