Act I, Scene 100

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• 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, 1390
  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. 1395
  Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
  If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
  If any, be a satire to decay,
  And make Time's spoils despised every where.
  Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; 1400
  So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.