Who says that fictions only and false hair 
Become a verse? Is there no truth in beauty? 
Is all good structure in a winding stair? 
May no lines pass, except they do their duty 
Not to a true, but painted chair? 

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves 
And sudden arbors shadow coarse-spun lines? 
Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? 
Must all be veiled, while he that reads, divines, 
Catching the sense at two removes? 

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing: 
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime: 
I envy no man's nightingale or spring; 
Nor let them punish me with loss of rime, 
Who plainly say, My God, My King.