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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, I pen verse inspired by the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at Amerika-Institut of LMU München, where I edit a weekly circular on poetry, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach English, tutor composition, and lead a literary circle.

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LXXIX


by William Shakespeare


Whilſt I alone did call vpon thy ayde,
My verſe alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decayde,
And my ſick Muſe doth giue an other place.
I grant ( ſweet loue )thy louely argument
Deſerues the trauaile of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy Poet doth inuent,
He robs thee of,and payes it thee againe,
He lends thee vertue,and he ſtole that word,
From thy behauiour,beautie doth he giue
And found it in thy cheeke: he can affoord
No praiſe to thee,but what in thee doth liue.
   Then thanke him not for that which he doth ſay,
   Since what he owes thee,thou thy ſelfe dooſt pay,


Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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