Sonnet 73

I Neuer dranke of Aganippe well,
Nor neuer did in shade of Tempe sit:
And Muses scorne with vulgar braines to dwell,
Poore Lay-man I, for sarcred rites vnfit.
Some doe I heare of Poets fury tell,
But God wot, wot not what they meane by it:
And this I sweare by blackest brooke of hell,
I am no Pickepurse of an others wit.
How fals it than, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speake? And what I speake I showe
In verse; and that my verse best wittes doth please,
Gesse we the cause. What is it this? fie no.
Or so? much lesse. How then? sure thus it is;
My Lips are sure inspir'd with Stellas kisse.