Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O! blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.
In plain English
I'm ashamed at how little my poetry can do. You're such an important subject—so worthy of praise—that anything I write actually cheapens you rather than honours you. My words just aren't good enough.
Please don't blame me for running out of things to say. The problem isn't laziness: it's that when I look at you, you're so perfect that my clumsy attempts at description feel like they're making you look worse, not better. It would almost be wrong of me to keep trying.
My whole purpose in writing is just to capture your beauty and character—but your own reflection does that job perfectly already. The mirror tells you more than I ever could.
