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