How can my
muse want subject to invent
While thou
dost breathe that pour'st into my verse,
Thine own sweet
argument, too excellent,
For every
vulgar paper to rehearse?
O give thy
self the thanks if aught in me,
Worthy
perusal stand against thy sight,
For who's
so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou
thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou
the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those
old nine which rhymers invocate,
And he
that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal
numbers to outlive long date.
If my
slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine
shall be the praise.
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