|
|
| If thou survive my well-contented day, | 1 |
|
|
| 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 bett'ring of the time, | 5 |
|
|
| And though they be outstripp'd 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, | 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'. |
|
|
