WHERE art thou, Muse,
that thou forgetst so long |
|
To speak of that which gives thee all thy
might? |
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Spendst thou thy fury on some worthless
song, |
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Darkening thy power to lend base subjects
light? |
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Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem |
5 |
In gentle numbers time so idly spent; |
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Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem |
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And gives thy pen both skill and argument. |
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Rise, resty Muse, my loves sweet face
survey, |
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If Time have any wrinkle graven there; |
10 |
If any, be a satire to decay, |
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And make Times spoils despised every
where. |
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Give my love fame faster than
Time wastes life; |
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So thou preventst his scythe
and crooked knife. |
|