38

How can my muse want subject to invent

While thou dost breathe that pour’st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellen

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O, give thy self the thanks if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee

When thou thy self 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