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XVII.
Who
will believe 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 touch'd earthly
faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd 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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