Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long <br /> To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? <br /> Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, <br /> Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? <br /> Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem <br /> In gentle numbers time so idly spent; <br /> Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem <br /> And gives thy pen both skill and argument. <br /> Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, <br /> If Time have any wrinkle graven there; <br /> If any, be a satire to decay, <br /> And make Time's spoils despised every where. <br /> Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; <br /> So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-c/
