Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, <br />My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, <br />But now my gracious numbers are decayed, <br />And my sick Muse doth give an other place. <br />I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument <br />Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, <br />Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent <br />He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. <br />He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word <br />From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, <br />And found it in thy cheek; he can afford <br />No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. <br /> Then thank him not for that which he doth say, <br /> Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-79-whilst-i-alone-did-call-upon-thy-aid/
