THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare (100)

 C

    Where art thou Muse¹ that thou forget'st so long, 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 redeem², In gentle numbers time so idly spent； Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem³ 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 satire⁴ to decay, And make time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, So thou prevent'st his scythe⁵ and crooked⁶ knife.