BIOWHERE art thou, Muse, that thou forgetst so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spendst thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my loves sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Times spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou preventst his scythe and crooked knife.

Sonnet 100
Shakespeare