1 I never saw that you did painting need
2 And therefore to your fair no painting set;
3 I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
4 The barren tender of a poet's debt;
5 And therefore have I slept in your report,
6 That you yourself being extant well might show
7 How far a modern quill doth come too short,
8 Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
9 This silence for my sin you did impute,
10 Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
11 For I impair not beauty being mute,
12 When others would give life and bring a tomb.
13 There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
14 Than both your poets can in praise devise.