Thou leaden brain, which censur'st what I write, <br />And say'st my lines be dull and do not move, <br />I marvel not thou feel'st not my delight, <br />Which never felt'st my fiery touch of love. <br />But thou, whose pen hath like a pack-horse serv'd, <br />Whose stomach unto gall hath turn'd thy food, <br />Whose senses, like poor prisoners, hunger-starv'd, <br />Whose grief hath parch'd thy body, dried thy blood, <br />Thou which hast scorned life and hated death, <br />And in a moment mad, sober, glad, and sorry, <br />Thou which hast bann'd thy thoughts and curs'd thy breath <br />With thousand plagues, more than in Purgatory, <br />Thou thus whose spirit Love in his fire refines, <br />Come thou, and read, admire, applaud my lines.<br /><br />Michael Drayton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xlix-thou-leaden-brain/
