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
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;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time's spoils despisèd everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Witches Chant (From Macbeth)
- Spring And Winter
- Sonnet 129: Th' Expense Of Spirit In A Waste Of Shame
- Sonnet 40: Take All My Loves, My Love, Yea, Take Them All
- Sonnet 141: In Faith, I Do Not Love Thee With Mine Eyes