(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

Sonnet 79: Whilst I Alone Did Call Upon Thy Aid

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 an other 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 behaviour; 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.

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Comments (3)

Awesome I like this poem, check mine out
It seems therefore that graces may be found Where by nature placed, they do abound Though our pens they may record those virtues seen Their owners are true virtue Our perception borrowed dreams
brilliant and romantic.