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Where art thou, muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Dark'ning thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty muse, my love's sweet face survey
If time have any wrinkle graven there.
If any, be a satire to decay
And make time's spoils despised everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than time wastes life;
So, thou prevene'st his scythe and crooked knife.
