Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine,
That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:
Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold:
Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine,
Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old:
Or with strange similes, inricht each line,
Of hearbes or beasts, which Inde or Affricke hold.
For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,
Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe.
And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites,
How then? even thus in Stellas face I reede,
What love and beautie be, then all my deede
But coppying is, what in her nature writes.