| 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, | |
| Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? | |
| Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| If any, be a satire to decay, | |
| And make Time’s spoils despised every where. | |
| Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; | |
| So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife. |