The sonnets. William Shakespeare

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      Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,

      I make my love engrafted to this store:

      So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,

      Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,

      That I in thy abundance am sufficed,

      And by a part of all thy glory live:

      Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,

      This wish I have, then ten times happy me.

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      How can my muse want subject to invent

      While thou dost breathe that pour’st into my verse,

      Thine own sweet argument, too excellent,

      For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

      O give thy self the thanks if aught in me,

      Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,

      For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,

      When thou thy self dost give invention light?

      Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

      Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,

      And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

      Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

      If my slight muse do please these curious days,