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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=37881" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 20</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=37881" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But now my Muse toyled with continuall care,<br> Begins to faint, and slacke her former pace,<br> Expecting favour from that heavenly grace,<br>That maie (in time) her feeble strength repaire.<br>Till when (sweete youth) th'essence of my soule,<br> (Thou that dost sit and sing at my hearts griefe.<br> Thou that dost send thy shepheard no reliefe)<br>Beholde, these lines; the sonnes of Teares and Dole.<br>Ah had great Colin chiefe of sheepheards all,<br> Or gentle Rowland, my professed friend,<br> Had they thy beautie, or my pennance pend,<br>Greater had beene thy fame, and lesse my fall:<br> But since that everie one cannot be wittie,<br> Pardon I crave of them, and of thee, pitty.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Richard+Barnfield">Richard Barnfield</a></strong></div>

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