And dost but rob thyself to make me poor.
What part can I have in thy luminous cone?
What flame, since my love's thine, can call my own?
The palest star is less the son of night,
Who, but thy borrow'd, know no native light:
Was 't not enough thou freely didst bestow
10The Muse, but thou wouldst give the laurel too?
And twice my aims by thy assistance raise,
Conferring first the merit, then the praise?
But I should do thee greater injury,