Let Dainty Wits Crie On The Sisters Nine, That, Brauely Maskt, Their Fancies May Be Told; Or, Pindars Apes, Flaunt They In Phrases Fine, Enam'Ling With Pied Flowers Their Thoughts Of Gold; Or Else Let Them In Statlier Glorie Shine, Ennobling New-Found Tropes With Problemes Old; Or With Strange Similes Enrich Each Line, Of Herbes Or Beasts Which Inde Or Affrick Hold. For Me, In Sooth, No Muse But One I Know, Phrases And Problems From My Reach Do Grow; And Strange Things Cost Too Deare For My Poor Sprites. How Then? Euen Thus: In Stellaes Face I Reed What Loue And Beautie Be; Then All My Deed But Copying Is, What In Her Nature Writes.