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You that do search for every purling spring Which from the ribs of old Parna**us flows, And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring; Ye 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 sk**, your name You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame, Stella behold, and then begin to endite.