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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