Sonnet #79

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
bt now my gracious numbers R decayed,
& my sick muse doth give an other place.
I grant (sweet luv) thy luvly argument
Deserves d travail of a worthier pen,
Yet wot of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, & pays it thee again,
He lends thee virtue, & he stole th@ word,
frm thy behaviour, beauty doth he give
& found it in thy cheek: he can af4d
No praise 2 thee, bt wot in thee doth live.
Then thank him nt 4 th@ which he doth say,
Since wot he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay.
See Original Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

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