Sonnet 79

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,

But now my gracious numbers are decay’d,

And my sick Muse doth give another place.

I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument

Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent

He robs thee of and pays it thee again.

He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word

From thy behavior; beauty doth he give

And found it in thy cheek; he can afford

No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.

Then thank him not for that which he doth say,

Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

When I was all the poet you had,

You graced my poetry all alone.

But time’s gone by. My words have played.

It’s time you had another one.

I accept it, love, that the theme in you

Deserves the work of another artist.

But whatever is to be his breakthrough,

It comes from you—was yours first.

He poses virtue, but the very idea

Of that he stole from you. And he’s

Made a thing of great beauty, a

Testimony, only, to what he sees.

At least don’t thank him for what he makes—

The best he gives you is all he takes.