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'ling 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 with 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.