Sonnet 21. So is it not with me as with that Muse

So is it not with me as with that Muse

Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse

Who heaven itself 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 rare

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.