Shakespeare is worried other poets are writing about his muse!

Our story continues with a shock love triangle forming.

Sonnet 79
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;But now my gracious numbers are decayed,And my sick Muse doth give an other place.I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argumentDeserves the travail of a worthier pen;Yet what of thee thy poet doth inventHe robs thee of, and pays it thee again.He lends thee virtue, and he stole that wordFrom thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,And found it in thy cheek: he can affordNo 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.

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