text: Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame,
  Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee;
  Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history;
  If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
  Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
  A nest for my young praise in laurel tree:
  In truth I sweare, I wish not there should be
  Graved in mine epitaph a Poets name:
  Nay if I would, could I just title make,
  That any laud to me thereof should grow,
  Without my plumes from others wings I take.
  For nothing from my wit or will doth flow,
  Since all my words thy beauty doth endite,
  And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.