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Sonnet 17

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

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