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| SONNET 100 |
| Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long |
| To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? |
| Spend'st 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 love's sweet face survey, |
| If Time have any wrinkle graven there; |
| If any, be a satire to decay, |
| And make Time's spoils despised every where. |
| Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; |
| So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. |
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