I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set, I found (or thought I found) you did exceed, The barren tender of a Poets debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself being extant well might show, How far a modoern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, What worth in you doth grow, This silence for my sins you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb, For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes, Than both your Poets can in praise devise.
Sonnets, 1XXXiii
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