Sonnet LXXIX  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.