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WHERE art thou, Muse, that thou forgetíst so long To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spendíst 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 loveís sweet face survey, If Time have any wrinkle graven there; If any, be a satire to decay, And make Timeís spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; So thou preventíst his scythe and crooked knife. Sonnet 100 Shakespeare

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