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 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 world to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poets 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 rhymes.