The speaker in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 79 feels his poetic gift slipping away. Once, he alone celebrated the beloved’s grace in his verse, but now his inspiration is sickly and a rival poet has taken his place. He admits, with a hint of jealousy, that such beauty deserves a worthier pen. Then the argument turns clever: any poet who writes about the beloved is only borrowing from him. “Virtue” is stolen from the beloved’s behaviour, “beauty” found in his cheek. The poet can offer no praise that doesn’t already live in the beloved. So there’s no need to thank him — every compliment merely repays a debt. The mood is rueful, self-deprecating, and ultimately an ingenious way of turning defeat into a reminder that the beloved himself is the true source of all praise.
Sonnet 79: Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid — Summary
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick Muse doth give an other place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.