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