You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
You that do dictionary's method bring Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes,
With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing,
You take wrong ways: those far-fet helps be such As do bewray a want of inward touch:
And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light.
But if (both for your love and skill) your name You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite.
