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CIII.
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having
such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare
is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise
beside!
O, blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That
over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines
and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then,
striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was
well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of
your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much
more, than in my verse can sit
Your own glass shows
you when you look in it.
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