Sonnet #17

Who will believe my verse in time 2 come
If it were filled wiv Ur most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is bt as a tomb
Which hides Ur life, & shows nt half Ur parts:
If I cud write d beauty of Ur eyes,
& in fresh numbers number all Ur graces,
d age 2 come wud say this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.
So shud my papers (yellowed wiv thr age)
b scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
& Ur true rights b termed a poetz rage,
& stretched metre of an antique song.
bt were sum child of Urs alive th@ time,
U shud live twice in it, & in my rhyme.
See Original Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

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