text: You that do search for every purling spring
  Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
  And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
  Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
  Ye that do dictionary's method bring
  Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;
  You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes
  With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing:
  You take wrong ways; those far-fet helps be such
  As do bewray a want of inward touch,
  And sure, at length stol'n goods do come to light.
  But if, both for your love and skill, your name
  You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
  Stella behold, and then begin to endite.