Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,

That, bravely masked, their fancies may be told;

Or Pindar's apes flaunt they in phrases fine,

Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold;

Or else let them in statelier glory shine,

Ennobling new-found tropes with problems old;

Or with strange similes enrich each line,

Of herbs or beasts with Ind or Afric hold.

And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.

How then? even thus,—in Stella's face I read

What love and beauty be, then all my deed

But copying is, what in her Nature writes.