Sonnet 21

So is it not with me as with that Muse

Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven itself for ornament doth use

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,

Making a couplement of proud compare

With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,

With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare

That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.

O, let me, true in love, but truly write,

And then believe me, my love is as fair

As any mother’s child, though not so bright

As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air.

Let them say more that like of hearsay well:

I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

I am not like most of those who sing

Of how appealing their lovers are.

They always say some cliché thing,

Like “she’s a bright-shining star,”

And proudly make comparisons

That we’ve all heard before

To flowers, gems, suns, and moons,

Like their love’s heaven’s only care.

No: I just have to truly write.

My lover’s as beautiful as any child.

I won’t compare her to the stars at night

Or say anything figuratively wild.

They’re free and speak for themselves, those stars.

They don’t rely on rumors.