If thou survive my well-contented day
Whent hat churl death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fiortune once more re-survey
There poor rude lines of they deceased lover,
COmpare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen
Reserve them for my lvoe, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thoguht:
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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