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an all-eating shame,
The world will be thy widow and still weep,
O that you were your self, but love you are No longer yours, than you your self here live, Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
And constant stars in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert: Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is truth's and beauty's
Who will believe my verse in time to come
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 touched earthly faces. So should my papers (yellowed with their age) Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed 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.
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
O let me true in love but truly write,
