So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned’s wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
In plain English
I've called on you so often to be my inspiration, and you've given my writing such beauty that other poets have copied my style and built their own work on what you've shown me. Your eyes taught people without talent to sing at the highest level, gave weight to ignorance and let it soar, added brilliance to writers already skilled, and made grace itself twice as powerful.
You should be proudest of what I create, because everything in it comes from you and is shaped by you. When other writers use you as their subject, you merely polish their existing technique. But you are my entire art form—you transform my rough, untutored work and raise it to the level of formal learning itself.
