Let daintie wits crie on the Sisters nine,
That bravely maskt, their fancies may be told:
Or Pindare's Apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold:
Or else let them in statelier glorie shine,
Ennobling new found Tropes with problemes old:
Or with strange similies enrich each line,
Of herbes or beastes, which Inde or Afrike hold.
For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know:
Phrases and Problemes from my reach do grow,
And strange things cost too deare for my poore sprites.
How then? even thus: in Stella's face I reed,
What Love and Beautie be, then all my deed
But Copying is, what in her Nature writes.
Sir Philip Sidney