Shakespeare's Sonnet 21

So is it not with me as with that Muse,Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven itself for ornament doth useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compare.With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare,That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.O! let me, true in love, but truly write,And then believe me, my love is as fairAs any mother’s child, though not so brightAs those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:Let them say more that like of hearsay well;I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

I am not like that poet who is inspired to write by artificially enhanced beauty, who uses heaven itself as decoration and compares his beloved with every beautiful thing. He makes grand comparisons with the sun and moon, with the rich gems of earth and sea, with April's earliest flowers, and with every rare thing enclosed beneath the sky of this vast globe.
Let me simply write truthfully, as I am true in love. Then believe me: my love is as beautiful as any mother's child, though not as bright as those golden lights fixed in the sky.
Let those who enjoy empty talk say more. I will not exaggerate the value of what I have no intention of selling.