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'dAnd my sick Muse doth give another place.I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argumentDeserves the travail of a worthier pen,Yet what of thee thy poet doth inventHe robs thee of and pays it thee again.He lends thee virtue and he stole that wordFrom thy behavior; beauty doth he giveAnd found it in thy cheek; he can affordNo 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.
It seems that it's singing your graces,but really, they're stealing your face'slight. Darling, I'm fightingthis devious writingthat would, if you let it, replace us.