Sonnet 79

　　Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid

　　My verse alone had all thy gentle grace；

　　But now my gracious numbers are decayed，

　　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 behaviour；beauty doth he give，

　　And fou