CIII

    Alack！ what poverty my Muse¹ brings forth², 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 mar³ 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.