text: Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,
  That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told;
  Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,
  Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.
  Or else let them in statelier glory shine,
  Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old;
  Or with strange similes enrich each line,
  Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.
  For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;
  Phrases and problems from my reach do grow,
  And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.
  How then? even thus: in Stella's face I read
  What love and beauty be; then all my deed
  But copying is, what in her Nature writes.