Let other Poets write of their sweet Loves
and talk of them as though a goddess true,
as though she were surrounded by white doves
while other birds sing from the summer blue.
And Kings; O let them have their sov'reigns gold,
full-stamp'd with their proud portrait finely wrought,
for though a portrait bright 'tis ever cold —
a worthless prize unlook'd for and unsought.
So let the Poets sit and dream and think
and let proud Kings count their golden treasure,
for thy rich beauty shines thru' this black ink
making this page priceless beyond measure —
Leave Kings to count and Poets down to sit
if this not true in truth I never writ.