[1] Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
[2] My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
[3] But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
[4] And my sick Muse doth give another place.
[5] I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
[6] Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
[7] Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
[8] He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
[9] He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
[10] From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
[11] And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
[12] No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
[13] Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
[14] Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.
|