home | authors | books | about

Home -> William Shakespeare -> 79

79

Sonnets

1

10

100

101

102

103

104

105

106

107

108

109

11

110

111

112

113

114

115

116

117

118

119

12

120

121

122

123

124

125

126

127

128

129

13

130

131

132

133

134

135

136

137

138

139

14

140

141

142

143

144

144

145

146

147

148

149

15

150

151

152

153

154

16

17

18

19

2

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

3

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

4

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

5

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

6

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

7

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

8

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

87

88

89

9

90

91

92

93

94

95

96

97

98

99







LXXIX

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 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 behaviour; 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.





© Art Branch Inc. | English Dictionary