My dear, you question inspiration's spring As beaded sweat now shows upon my face I smile, for all creation's but a natural thing When beauty such as yours has rightful place. Gladly, I with striving vigor scribe this verse Despite struggling to upwards hold my head At last muscular release, the pen grows terse A sigh; Shall I soon see dearest effort dead? For exertions such as these are alone complete When no longer you are absent from my sight Else, invention's useless, toil, an empty feat Less affirmation is found in your light. If my pleas move you to emotion show All prior exercise tenfold would grow.