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Sonnet LXXXI
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
1
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
2
From hence your memory death cannot take,
3
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
4
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
5
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
6
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
7
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
8
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
9
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
10
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
11
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
12
You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
13
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
14