Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 74

I never drank of Aganippe well, 
Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit; 
And muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell; 
Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit. 
      Some do I hear of poet’s fury tell, 
But (God wot) wot not what they mean by it; 
And this I swear, by blackest brook of hell, 
I am no pick-purse of another's wit.
       How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease
My thoughts I speak, and what I speak doth flow
In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please?
Guess we the cause: 'What, is it thus?' Fie, no;
      'Or so?' Much less. 'How then?' Sure, thus it is:
      My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss.