Sonnet 100 Sonnet 100 Sonetto 100 Soneto 100 Сонет 100 十四行詩 100

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long.

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? To 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 redeem

In gentle numbers time so idly spent;

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem

And 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.