Sonnet 21

So is it not with me as with that MuseStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven itself for ornament doth useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearseMaking 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 rareThat 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 fairAs any mother's child, though not so brightAs 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.
The muses are nothing but bitcheswho compare love to flowers and riches.My man's still a hunkwithout all that bunk.It's my truth gets me into his britches.