O truant Muse what shall be thy amends,

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?

Both truth and beauty on my love depends:

So dost thou too, and therein dignified:

Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say,

“Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed,

Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay:

But best is best, if never intermixed”?

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

Excuse not silence so, for’t lies in thee,

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb:

And to be praised of ages yet to be.

Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how,

To make him seem long hence, as he shows now.