Shakespeare's Sonnet 79

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;But now my gracious numbers are decay’d,And my sick Muse doth give an other place.I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argumentDeserves the travail of a worthier pen;Yet what of thee thy poet doth inventHe robs thee of, and pays it thee again.He lends thee virtue, and he stole that wordFrom thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,And found it in thy cheek: he can affordNo praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.Then thank him not for that which he doth say,Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

While I alone called on your help, my poetry alone enjoyed all your lovely gifts. But now my once graceful poems have declined, and my ailing inspiration gives way to someone else. I admit, sweet love, that your lovely qualities deserve the efforts of a better writer. Yet whatever your poet creates about you, he steals from you and then gives back. He credits you with goodness, but he stole that word from your behavior. He gives you beauty, but found it in your face. He can offer you no praise that does not already live in you. So do not thank him for what he says, since you yourself supply the payment he owes you.