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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.