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XXI



So is it not with me as with that Muse,

Stirr\'d by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven 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 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 fix\'d in heaven\'s air:

  Let them say more that like of hearsay well;

  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

 	--William Shakespeare

LIII



What is your substance, whereof are you made,

That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

Since every one, hath every one, one shade,

And you but one, can every shadow lend.

Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

Is poorly imitated after you;

On Helen\'s cheek all art of beauty set,

And you in Grecian tires are painted new: 

Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,

The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

The other as your bounty doth appear;

And you in every blessed shape we know.

  In all external grace you have some part,

  But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

 	--William Shakespeare