Alack, What Poverty My Muse Brings Forth
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
overgoes
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.
