Vingt-quatre sonnets

17th sonnet:

Who will believe my verse in time to come

If it were filled with your most high deserts?

Though 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 your graces,

The age to come would say this poet lies,

Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.

So should my papers (yellowed with their age)

Be scorned, like old me of less truth than tongue,and your true rights be termed a poet's rage,

And strechèd metre of an antique song.

But were some child of yours alive that time

You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.