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XXXVIII.
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 in
me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For
who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou
thyself dost give invention light?
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.
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