You that do search for every purling springWhich from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which growsNear thereabouts into your poesy wring;You that do dictionary's method bringInto your rhymes, running in rattling rows;You that poor Petrarch's long-deceasëd woesWith new-born sighs and denizened wit do sing;You take wrong ways, those far-fet helps be suchAs do bewray a want of inward touch,And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light.But if, both for your love and skill, your nameYou seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,Stella behold, and then begin to endite.

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