| IF thou survive my well-contented day | |
| When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, | |
| And shalt by fortune once more re-survey | |
| These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, | |
| Compare them with the bettering of the time, | 5 |
| And though they be outstripp’d by every pen, | |
| Reserve them for my love, not for their rime, | |
| Exceeded by the height of happier men. | |
| O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: | |
| ‘Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age, | 10 |
| 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.’ |