William Shakespeare
Warwickshire
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Sonnet Lxxix

Rating: 5.0
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
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COMMENTS
Dr Antony Theodore 14 April 2020
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. the great shakespeare and his poems. tony
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Brian Jani 26 April 2014
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out 
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