If thou
survive my well-contented day,
When that
churl death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt
by fortune once more re-survey
These poor
rude lines of thy deceased lover:
Compare
them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though
they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve
them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded
by the height of happier men.
O then
vouchsafe me but this loving thought,
'Had my
friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer
birth than this his love had brought
To march
in ranks of better equipage:
But since
he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll
read, his for his love'
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