Ah! what exquisite music! But—what was this?
Your name, from hence, immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die.
Again in Sonnet XXXVIII.—
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
And in the next:—
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Curious, surely. What could these lines mean?
And again:—
My life hath in this line some interest.