Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
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 behaviour; beauty he doth 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.
Sign up for the Mockingbird Newsletter
COMMENTS
One response to “Shakespeare Thursday: Sonnet 79”
Leave a Reply
he can afford / No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Not that Shakespeare meant it this way, but these and other lines could almost come from a psalm, couldn’t they, with the poet thanking God for the gift of inspiration?
Thank you for posting these sonnets, Ethan. So many books, so little time, and I tend to neglect Shakespeare’s poetry.