I write here beauty true on layers white;
Not fame nor fortune steers my loving pen,
Nor guided by a force of equalled might
From tales recited by time's tragic men.
Refusing to proclaim my worth on theirs,
But I, beholder of your love do boast:
What you do give is all a poet cares,
And fills his inkless pen to better most.
Yes strong! My advantage by greater muse-
Is muse the fame of art or art of fame?
Since neither one a poet dares to choose,
Yet give to beauty all, and I to blame:
If best of me do drape the pages wrong,
Erase my ink, erase every song.
