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 pow’r 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.

Where are you, Muse, that you forget so long

To send your love to art and song?

Many great artists have worked, so strong,

In obscurity, where they don’t belong,

While other creatures make useless art

And become famous, with all the might

And none of the truth that great art ought

To be bringing to light.

Do you not care

To raise up those

Who have their ear

To the right muse?

Save my love, make her famous, fast,

And crush the art not meant to last.