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XVII.

your parts.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deferts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half
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, yellowed with their age,
Be fcorn'd, like old men of lefs truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique fong:

But were fome child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rime.

XVIII.

Shall I compare thee to a fummer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate :
Rough winds do fhake the darling buds of May,
And fummer's lease hath all too fhort a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal fummer shall not fade,

Nor lofe poffeffion of that fair thou owest,

Nor fhall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can fee,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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