If thou survive my well-contented day,When that churl death my bones with dust shall coverAnd shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceased 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 rhyme,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 broughtTo 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'.
