Who will believe my verse in time to come
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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
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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,
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Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
And stretchèd meter of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
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You should live twice – in it and in my rime.