F thou survive my well-contented day
- When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
- And shalt by fortune once more resurvey
- These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,
- Compare them with the bett-ring of the time,
- And though they be outstripped by every pen,
- Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,
- Exceeded by the height of happier men.
- O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
- 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
- A dearer birth than this his love had brought
- To march in ranks of better equipage;
- But since he died, and poets better prove,
- Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
SONNET #32
by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)