Sonnet Lxxix

William Shakespeare

     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.

Index + Blog :

Poetry Archive Index | Blog : Poem of the Day