- Where art thou Muse that thou forget’st so long,
- To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
- Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
- Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
- Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
- In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
- Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
- And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
- Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey,
- If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
- If any, be a satire to decay,
- And make time’s spoils despised every where.
- Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
- So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife.