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 an other place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argumentDeserves the travail of a worthier pen;Yet what of thee thy poet doth inventHe robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that wordFrom thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,And found it in thy cheek: he can affordNo 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.