My heart is not of men to others take,

Nor battle for deceptive perjury

That swear the men that thee a statue make,

Else I become thy victim’d sorcery.

The army of a thousand perfect heavens

Clash for thee, a prize of many fortunes;

Striketh men’s frail hearts a hundred-seven

Arrows – blood that flows from all proportions;

Art thou so abundant in thy beauty

That all should thus cast their meaningless lives?

Make thyself not product of a snooty

Brat, for art thyself in heaven’s archives -

    If thou art there found with all the statues,

    Be thyself the toy thou should’st bemuse.