Sonnet 32

If thou survive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,

Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,

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,

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.’

If you live longer than I am granted to,

And dust and earth have covered my body and bones,

And maybe one more time you have a chance to view

These lines, my poems, above the grass and stones,

Compare them to the age to come,

And let them be bettered by other writers.

Save them for the love in them,

Though language will leave for fresher waters.

Please think of them with this loving thought:

“Had my love’s muse begun anew today,

These words would have a more modern art,

Not look so old in the morning’s ray.

But since he died, and there are others to speak of,

I’ll read them for their style—him for his love.”