Sonnet Xxxviii

William Shakespeare

     How can my Muse want subject to invent,
     While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
     Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
     For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
     O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
     Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
     For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
     When thou thyself dost give invention light?
     Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
     Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
     And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
     Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
     If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
     The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

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