- Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
- That having such a scope to show her pride,
- The argument, all bare, is of more worth
- Than when it hath my added praise beside!
- O! blame me not, if I no more can write!
- Look in your glass, and there appears a face
- That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
- Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
- Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
- To mar the subject that before was well?
- For to no other pass my verses tend
- Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
- And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
- Your own glass shows you when you look in it.