Sonnet 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 for his fair doth rehearse;
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and seas 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, thought 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