Whilst I forlorn did appeal to thy aid,
My lay alone held up thy tender grace;
But now my civil verses are decayed,
But my frail spark does yield a place.
I bless, Sweet Swan, sweeter difference
Deserves the labor of a virtuous pen;
Yet what of thee this poet does invent
I steal of thee to pay it back again.
I lent thee honor; robbed such word
From that vessel; beauty too I give
To find it in thy roses which I ill afford,
The praise to you, in you it does live.
So give no thanks for that which I say,
For that loan I made you  do repay.