Shakespeare's Sonnets: So is it not with me as with that muse

So is it not with me as with that muse,Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heav'n it self for ornament doth use,And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compare,With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,With April's first-born flowers and all things rareThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.O let me true in love but truly write,And then believe me, my love is as fairAs any mother's child, though not so brightAs those gold candles fix't in heaven's air: Let them say more that like of hear-say well, I will not praise that purpose not to sell.