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Sonnet CIII
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| Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, | 1
| That having such a scope to show her pride, | 2
| The argument all bare is of more worth | 3
| Than when it hath my added praise beside! | 4
| O, blame me not, if I no more can write! | 5
| Look in your glass, and there appears a face | 6
| That over-goes my blunt invention quite, | 7
| Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. | 8
| Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, | 9
| To mar the subject that before was well? | 10
| For to no other pass my verses tend | 11
| Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; | 12
| And more, much more, than in my verse can sit | 13
| Your own glass shows you when you look in it. | 14
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