O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy’d?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
‘Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d;
Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix’d’?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for’t lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be prais’d of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.
In plain English
The poet scolds his own creative spirit for neglecting to write about his beloved—someone who embodies both truth and beauty. He asks the Muse what excuse it has, then imagines it might argue that true beauty needs no embellishment, no artistic tricks, because it's already perfect as it is.
But the poet rejects this silence. He insists that his beloved's worth depends on being celebrated in verse—not because he needs flattery, but because writing about him is the only way to preserve him beyond his mortal life. A gilded monument will crumble; only words can keep him vivid for future generations.
So the poet commands his Muse to do its job: capture the man as he appears now, and through that capture, make him seem eternally present to readers yet unborn.
