Sonnet 38

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou thyself dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

How could I ever have to search for words at all

When you are my muse and the poetry just pours

Whenever I think of you, think and call—

Too beautiful to be put into prose.

Give yourself thanks, if anything in me

Worth being read appears under your eyes.

Any idiot could write poetry

With you in his skies.

Count yourself the tenth Muse, ten times more admired

Than the nine who’ve been so long implored;

And count on me to be more inspired,

And you, even longer adored.

If my work can come forth in days like these,

I’ll take the pains, if you’ll take the praise.