Alack what poverty my muse brings forth
That having such a scope to show her pride
The argument all bear is of more
worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside
Tell me
Blame me not if I no more can write
Look in your glass and there appears a face
That over goes my blunt
invention quite
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace
We're it not sinful then striving to mend
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Then of your graces and your
gifts to tell
And more much more than in my verse can sit
Your own glass shows
when you do look at it
I love you so much
