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| SONNET 79 |
| 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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