Some Wits There Be Which Lyke My Method Well, And Say My Verse Runnes In A Lofty Vayne; Some Say, I Haue A Passing Pleasing Straine, Some Say That In My Humour I Excell. Some Who Reach Not The Height Of My Conceite, They Say, (As Poets Doe) I Vse To Fayne, And In Bare Words Paynt Out My Passions Payne: Thus Sundry Men Their Sundry Minds Repeate. I Passe Not I How Men Affected Be, Nor Who Commend, Or Discommend My Verse; It Pleaseth Me If I My Plaints Rehearse, And In My Lynes If Shee My Loue May See. I Proue My Verse Autentique Still In Thys, Who Writes My Mistres Praise Can Neuer Write Amisse.