Sonnets: Idea XLII
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 in my humour I excel. Some who not kindly relish my conceit, They say, as poets do, I use to feign, And in bare words paint out by passions' pain. Thus sundry men their sundry minds 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.
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"Some men there be which like my method well,..."
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