|
| SONNET 38 |
| 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. |
Sign up for the 
