Sonnet 78

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse

And found such fair assistance in my verse

As every alien pen hath got my use

And under thee their poesy disperse.

Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing

And heavy ignorance aloft to fly

Have added feathers to the learnèd’s wing

And given grace a double majesty.

Yet be most proud of that which I compile,

Whose influence is thine and born of thee.

In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,

And arts with thy sweet graces gracèd be;

But thou art all my art, and dost advance

As high as learning my rude ignorance.

So often have I called you muse

And so much help taken so,

Now everybody’s taking cues

To write the poems you sow.

You who taught an idiot to sing

And let my burdens fly

Have added bells to the bells that ring

And put more poets in the sky.

But take most pride in

What I’ve composed.

From you, others water the pen.

From you, my fountain grows.

You are all my art, entire—

Who found the poet in the liar.