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Sonnet XXXVIII
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| How can my Muse want subject to invent, | 1
| While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse | 2
| Thine own sweet argument, too excellent | 3
| For every vulgar paper to rehearse? | 4
| O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me | 5
| Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; | 6
| For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, | 7
| When thou thyself dost give invention light? | 8
| Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth | 9
| Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; | 10
| And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth | 11
| Eternal numbers to outlive long date. | 12
| If my slight Muse do please these curious days, | 13
| The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. | 14
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