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| SONNET 17 |
| Who will believe my verse in time to come, |
| If it were fill'd 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 touch'd earthly faces.' |
| So should my papers yellow'd with their age |
| Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, |
| And your true rights be term'd 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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