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| Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, | 1 |
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| My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; |
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| But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, |
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| And my sick Muse doth give an other place. |
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| I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument | 5 |
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| Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; |
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| Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent |
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| He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. |
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| He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word |
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| From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, | 10 |
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| And found it in thy cheek: he can afford |
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| No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. |
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 Then thank him not for that which he doth say, |
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| Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay. |
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