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LXXVI.
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from
variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not
glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds
strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word
doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and
where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always
write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending
again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily
new and old,
So is my love still telling what is
told.
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