Why is my verse by William Shakespeare

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Why is my verse so barren of new pride? 

So far from variation or quick change? 

Why, with the time, do I not glance aside 

To new-found methods and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same,

And keep invention in a noted weed, 

That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? 

O know, sweet love, I always write of you, 

And you and love are still my argument; 

So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent;
For as the sun is daily new and old, 

So is my love still telling what is told.