Sonnet XLVII: Lyke Memnons rocke toucht, with the rising

Lyke Memnons rocke toucht, with the rising Sunne,
Which yeelds a sownd, and ecchoes foorth a voice:
But when its' drownde, in westerne seas is dunne,
And drousie lyke, leaves off to make a noice.
So I (my love) inlightned with your shyne,
A Poets skill within my soule I shroud,
Not rude lyke that, which finer wittes declyne,
But such as Muses to the best allowde.
But when your figure, and your shape is gone,
I speechlesse am, lyke as I was before:
Or if I write, my verse is fill'd with moane,
and blurd with teares, by falling in such store.
Then muse not (Licia) if my Muse be slacke,
For when I wrote, I did thy beautie lacke.