Blogger tells me that this is my 100th post, so I thought it apropos to share The Bard's 100th sonnet at this time. (Yes, I am that tired and that drained of creativity.)
Sonnet C
by William Shakespeare
WHERE art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st 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 love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
P.S. Happy belated birthday, Mr. Shakespeare. (His birthday is considered April 16, 1564. He was baptized on April 26th of the same year.)
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