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Who will | believe | my verse | in time | to
come,
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If^it | were filled | with your | most^high |
deserts?
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Though yet | heaven knows it is | but^as | a
tomb
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Which hides | your life,| and shows | not half |
your parts.
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If I | could write | the beaut|y of | your eyes,
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And in fresh num|bers num|ber all | your
graces,
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The age | to come | would say | this po|et lies;
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Such heaven|ly touch|es nere | touched^earth|ly
faces.
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So should | my pap|ers (yel|lowed with | their
age,)
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Be scorned,| like^old | men of less truth | than
tongue,
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And your true rights | be termed | a po|et's
rage
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And stretch|ed met|er of an // antique song:
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But were | some* child | of yours | alive | that^time,
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You should | live^twice | in it,| and in | my
rhyme.