Sonnet 100

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.

See also  Attainment [There is no summit you may not attain] by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *