Sonnet 100
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so longTo speak of that which gives thee all thy might?Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeemIn gentle numbers time so idly spent;Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteemAnd gives thy pen both skill and argument.Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,If Time have any wrinkle graven there;If any, be a satire to decay,And make Time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
Come on, you dumb Muse! Can't you see?Your absence impov'rishes me.Without the foundationof your inspiration,my lays lack their lively esprit.