sonnet 78, Shakespeare

(Ignore me, I'm just trying to commit this to memory.)

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So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be:
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.

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..you know, I've never actually assigned the status of "Muse" to anyone. After all, even fictional ones get verbally abused around NaNoWriMo time. :/