Sonnet 79

Lyrics

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decayed 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