Some men there be which like my method well 
And much commend the strangeness of my vein; 
Some say I have a passing pleasing strain; 
Some say that im my humor I excel; 
Some, who not kindly relish my conceit, 
They say, as poets do, I use to feign, 
And in bare words paint out my passion's pain. 
Thus sundry men their sundry words repeat; 
I pass not, I, how men affected be, 
Nor who commends or discommends my verse; 
It pleaseth me, if I my woes rehearse, 
And in my lines if she my love may see. 
Only my comfort still consists in this, 
Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.