I paint so ill, my peece had need to be
Painted againe by some good poesie.
I write so ill, my slender line is scarce
So much as th' picture of a well-lim'd verse:
Yet may the love I send be true, though I
Send not true picture, nor true poesie.
Both which away, I should not need to feare,
My love, or feign'd or painted should appeare.