The one about the tenth Muse :)

Late edition:  Sonnet 38

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XXXVIII

  How can my muse want subject to invent,

  While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse

  Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

  For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

  O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me

  Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

  For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,

  When thou thy self dost give invention light?

  Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

  Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

  And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

  Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

    If my slight muse do please these curious days,

    The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

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Exquisite understated poem  J  and a late parachute again:  The but in the last line.  More tomorrow morning—