Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,
Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,
In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should be
graved in my Epitaph a Poets name.
Nor if I would could I just title make
That anie laud thereof to me should growe
Without my Plumes from others wings I take;
For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:
Since all my words thy beautie doth indite,
And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.