Some men there be which like my method well,
And much commend the strangeness of my vein;
Some say I have a pa**ing pleasing strain,
Some say that in my humor I excel;
Some, who not kindly relish my conceit,
They say, as poets do, I use to feign,
And in bare words paint out my pa**ion's pain.
Thus sundry men their sundry minds repeat.
I pa** 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.