Sonnet 89

STella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,
VVho seeke, who hope, who loue, who like, but thee:
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,
If thou praise mee, 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
graued in my Epitaph a Poets name.
Nor if I would could I iust title make
That anie laud thereof to me should growe
Without my Payns from others wings I take;
For nothing from my wit or will doth flowe:
Since all my wordes thy beautie doth indite,
And Loue doth hold my hand, & makes me write.