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 than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
СОНЕТ №21
Когда стихами засвербит душа
Я никому не делаю оглядки,
Пускай они романсами кишат
И источают метрами калядки.
Но зависть – чувство не моих причуд,
Хотя чужая мне обыкновенна,
Пусть даже им поэмы по плечу
И оды дамам сердца по колено.
Чтобы в помаде воротник рубах
Или интимных наслаждений хапнуть
Они им мечут бисер на словах
И дарят одуванчиков охапки.
А я горжусь названием поэта
И гонораров не прошу за это.