text: A Poet am I neither born nor bred,
  But to a witty poet married:
  Whose brain is fresh and pleasant as the Spring,
  Where Fancies grow and where the Muses sing.
  There oft I lean my head, and listening, hark,
  To catch his words and all his fancies mark:
  And from that garden show of beauties take
  Whereof a posy I in verse may make.
  Thus I, that have no gardens of my own,
  There gather flowers that are newly blown.