, by 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
stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention
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.
<-- index -->