Return to Sonnet LXXIX (thing)
|Sonnet LXXIX, by William Shakespeare|
Whilst I alone [911|did call upon thy aid],
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my [perfect number|gracious numbers] are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of [Christopher Marlowe|a worthier pen],
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
[Robin Hood|He robs thee of and pays it thee again].
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; [Vidal Sassoon|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 [why men don't like to talk|that which he doth say],
Since [credit card debt|what he owes thee] thou thyself dost pay.