Sonnet CLXIX:
Should I portray thee merely as I can,
In my conceit belittling all thy worth
With the dry bareness of my wordy dearth,
What flames would kindle in the dullest man!
Dearest, I dare not, though my lips o’erran
With Petrarch’s sweetness, give this selfish earth
A due display of what it owes thy birth,
Which so departs from nature’s common plan.
Perhaps in art my mind is too sincere,
To aim where failure must be consequent;
Or man unworthy of the high intent.
Perhaps a jealous counsel wins my ear,
And makes me cautelous and reticent;
Perhaps—ah, me! I can but say, I fear.
