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.
