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LXXIX.
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone
had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers
are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another 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
behavior; 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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