Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine, | a | ||||
That, bravely masked, their fancies may be told; | b | ||||
Or Pindar's apes flaunt they in phrases fine, | a | ||||
Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold; | b | ||||
5 |
Or else let them in statelier glory shine, | a | |||
Ennobling new-found tropes with problems old; | b | ||||
Or with strange similes enrich each line, | a | ||||
Of herbs or beasts with Ind or Afric hold. | b | ||||
For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know; | c | ||||
10 |
Phrases and problems from my reach do grow, | c | |||
And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites. | d | ||||
How then? even thus,—in Stella's face I read | e | ||||
What love and beauty be, then all my deed | e | ||||
But copying is, what in her Nature writes. | d | ||||
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