1 Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
2 So far from variation or quick change?
3 Why with the time do I not glance aside
4 To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
5 Why write I still all one, ever the same,
6 And keep invention in a noted weed,
7 That every word doth almost tell my name,
8 Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
9 O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
10 And you and love are still my argument;
11 So all my best is dressing old words new,
12 Spending again what is already spent:
13 For as the sun is daily new and old,
14 So is my love still telling what is told.