Sonnet 15: You That Do Search

You that do search for every purling spring,

Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,

And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows

Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;

You that do dictionary's method bring

Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;

You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes,

With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing,

You take wrong ways: those far-fet helps be such

As do bewray a want of inward touch:

And sure at length stol'n goods do come to light.

But if (both for your love and skill) your name

You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,

Stella behold, and then begin to endite.