Who will
believe my verse in time to come
If it were
filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet
heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which
hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could
write the beauty of your eyes,
And in
fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to
come would say this poet lies,
Such
heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.
So should
my papers (yellowed with their age)
Be
scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your
true rights be termed a poet's rage,
And
stretched metre of an antique song.
But were
some child of yours alive that time,
You should
live twice in it, and in my rhyme.
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