Where are you, my Muse, that you forgot for so long
To speak of that person who gives you all your power?
Are you wasting your inspiration on some worthless song,
Dulling your power to brighten some lowly subjects?
Return, forgetful Muse, and immediately make up for
The time that you spent writing noble verses;
Sing to the ear that appreciates your songs,
And gives your pen its ability to write and its subject.
Rise, sleepy Muse; examine my love's sweet face,
See if Time has carved any wrinkles there;
If it has, then mock its power of decay,
And make time's triumph hated everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than time wastes life;
So that you stop Time's sickle and his crooked knife.