A foolish suitor, unable to charm a young woman himself, begs the speaker to dash off a love sonnet. The poet obliges, scribbling fast without a single revision — a process that mirrors the suitor’s own empty head. Incredibly, the clumsy verses work: the woman falls hard for the dolt. Meanwhile, the speaker, who painstakingly mines heaven and myth for the perfect words to woo his own beloved, ends up empty-handed. The contrast stings. There’s a wry, self-mocking frustration in watching a mindless stand-in win with borrowed, careless lines while genuine eloquence and effort go unrewarded. The final couplet lands with a shrug of bitter amusement, as if love itself has a perverse sense of humor that favors dumb luck over art.
Sonnet XXI: A Witless Galant — Summary
A witless gallant a young wench that woo'd (Yet his dull spirit her not one jot could move), Entreated me, as e'er I wish'd his good, To write him but one sonnet to his love; When I, as fast as e'er my pen could trot, Pour'd out what first from quick invention came, Nor never stood one word thereof to blot, Much like his wit that was to use the same; But with my verses he his mistress won, Which doted on the dolt beyond all measure. But see, for you to Heav'n for phrase I run, And ransack all Apollo's golden treasure; Yet by my froth this fool his love obtains, And I lose you for all my love and pains.