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 fix’d;
    Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay;
    But best is best, if never intermix’d?'
    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.

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