by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
      OW can my Muse want subject to invent
      While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
      Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
      For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
      O, give thyself the thanks if aught in me
      Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
      For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee
      When thou thyself dost give invention light?
      Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
      Than those old nine which rimers invocate;
      And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
      Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
      If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
      The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.