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Sonnet XXXII
 
If thou survive my well-contented day,
1
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
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And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
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These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
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Compare them with the bettering of the time,
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And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
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Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
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Exceeded by the height of happier men.
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O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
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'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
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A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
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To march in ranks of better equipage:
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But since he died and poets better prove,
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Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
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