You that do search for every purling spring
 Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
 And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
 Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
 Ye that do dictionary's method bring
 Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;
 You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes
 With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing:
 You take wrong ways; those far-fet helps be such
 As 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 name
 You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
 Stella behold, and then begin to endite.