The Sonnets

Where art thou Muse that thou forgetʼst so long,

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

Spendʼst thou thy fury on some worthless song,

Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,

In gentle numbers time so idly spent;

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem

And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

Rise, resty Muse, my loveʼs sweet face survey,

If Time have any wrinkle graven there;

If any, be a satire to decay,

And make timeʼs spoils despised every where.

Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,

So thou preventʼst his scythe and crooked knife.