- 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 an other 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 behaviour; 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.