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LXXXI.
Or
I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive
when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory
death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be
forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall
have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you
entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall
be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall
o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall
rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are
dead;
You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
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