Philip Sidney

Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine, 
That bravely masked, their fancies may be told: 
Or Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine, 
Enam'lling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold:
   Or else let them in statelier glory shine, 
Ennobling new-found tropes with problems old: 
Or with strange similes enrich each line, 
Of herbs or beasts, which Ind or Afric hold. 
   For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know; 
   Phrases and problems from my reach do grow, 
And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites. 
   How then? even thus: in Stella's face I read 
   What love and beauty be; then all my deed 
But copying is, what in her Nature writes.