Thine eyes that taught the dumbe on high to sing,
And heavie ignorance aloft to flie,
Have added feathers to the learneds wing,
And given grace a double Majestie.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and borne of thee,
In others workes thou dost but mend the stile,
And Arts with thy sweete graces graced be.
  But thou art all my Art, and dost advance
  As high as learning, my rude ignorance,
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aide,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decaide,
And my sicke Muse doth give another place.
I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument
Deserves the travell of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy Poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and payes it thee againe,
He lends thee vertue, and he stole that word.
From thy behaviour, beautie doth he give
And found it in thy cheeke: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
  Then thanke him not for that Which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thy selfe dost pay.

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