Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid...
Sonnet 79Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decay'd 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 behavior; beauty doth he 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. |
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I used to have the benefit of your inspiration for my writing all to myself, but now my crappy art has had to move aside for another to take its place. Sure, you deserve better writing to describe you – but all the homage you’re currently paid by your new poet is stuff he’s stolen from you originally: he’s giving it back to you, gift-wrapped. The goodness he gives you in his writing he filched from your behaviour. The beauty he writes about he found in your face. In fact he’s got nothing to give you but stuff that already lives in you.
So don’t thank him for what he tells you, seeing as all of it come from you in the first place.