Shakespeare's Sonnet 38

How can my Muse want subject to invent,While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verseThine own sweet argument, too excellentFor every vulgar paper to rehearse?O! give thyself the thanks, if aught in meWorthy perusal stand against thy sight;For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,When thou thyself dost give invention light?Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worthThan those old nine which rhymers invocate;And he that calls on thee, let him bring forthEternal numbers to outlive long date.If my slight Muse do please these curious days,The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

How can my poetic inspiration lack a subject while you are alive? You pour yourself into my poetry as its lovely theme, too wonderful for any ordinary page to describe. Give yourself the credit if you see anything in my writing worth reading. Who could be so unable to express himself that he could not write about you, when you yourself light the way for imagination? Be the tenth Muse, worth ten times more than those ancient nine whom poets call on. Let whoever calls on you produce lasting verse that will survive far into the future. If my modest poetry pleases this demanding age, the labor will be mine, but the praise will be yours.