Who will believe in 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 touched  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 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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