Sonnet. 42 (Sonnet 42)

SOme men there be which like my method well,
And do commend the strangenes of my vaine,
Some say, I haue a passing pleasing straine,
Some say, that in my humor I excell:
Some, who not kindely relish my conceit,
They say (as Poets doe) I vse to faine,
And in bare words paint out my passions paine.
Thus sundry men their sundry mindes repeate;
I passe not I, how men affected be,
Nor who commends, or discommends my verse,
It pleaseth me, if I my woes rehearse,
And in my lines, if she my loue may see:
Onely my comfort still consists in this,
Writing her praise, I cannot write amisso.