Sonett-Forum

Fame, who with golden pens abroad dost range
Where Phoebus leaves the night, and brings the day;
Fame, in one place who, restless, dost not stay
Till thou hast flown from Atlas unto Gange;
Fame, enemy to time that still doth change,
And in his changing course would make decay
What here below he findeth in his way,
Even making virtue to herself look strange;
Daughter of heaven, now all thy trumpets sound,
Raise up thy head unto the highest sky,
With wonder blaze the gifts in her are found;
And when she from this mortal globe shall fly,
In thy wide mouth keep long, long keep her name
So thou by her, she by thee live shall, Fame.