Who will believe my verse 

  in time to come,

  if it were fill'd with your

   most high deserts?

  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.