Sonnet 3

LEt Dainty wittes cry, on the Sisters nine,
That brauely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:
Or Pinders Apes flaunt in their phrases fine,
Enameling their pride with flowers of golde.
Or els let them in stately glorie shine,
Ennobling new founde tropes, with problemes old:
Or with straunge 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 doe growe,
And straunge things cost too deere for my poore sprites,
How then? euen thus, in Stellas face I reede,
What loue and beauty be, then all my deede.
But coppying is, what in her nature writes.