age [Theme]

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 lover deceasd,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
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,
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.




Oh, if you're gonna outlive me,
When it will decay the body is,
And somehow accidentally perechtesh
Clumsy verse fan-poet -
Compare it with the verse of the later century
And, even though he was many to be outdone,
It is not honoring rhyme, - the human heart,
Who were you in bondage
Comfort me, lovingly thinking:
"If the poems of the dead man could
Go for a century, friendship, singing,
They would be the best style surpassed.
But once he died, I respect the art
The poets of the century, it is - a feeling."