Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That, having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument more bare if of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise besides.
O, blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That overgoes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful, then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and of your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

Another Chapter

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