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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HAD I THE CHOICE (AFTER WALT WHITMAN) by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE JOYS OF THE ROAD by BLISS CARMAN SNAKE by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE TO DEATH OF HIS LADY by FRANCOIS VILLON OF A FAIR LADY PLAYING WITH A SNAKE by EDMUND WALLER |