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XXXII.
If
thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl
Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by
fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of
thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering
of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd 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 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.'
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