The Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics/Book 1/Poem 48
For other versions of this work, see Sonnet 32 (Shakespeare).
xlviii
POST MORTEM
If Thou survive my well-contented dayWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover;
Compare them with the bettering of the time,And though they be outstripp’d by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhymeExceeded 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.’W. Shakespeare