Sonnet 32

If thou survive my well contented daie,

When that churle death my bones with dust shall cover

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poore rude lines of thy deceased Lover:

Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,

And though they be out-stript by every pen,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,

Exceeded by the hight of happier men.

Oh then voutsafe me but this loving thought,

Had my friends Muse growne with this growing age,

A dearer birth then this his love had brought

To march in ranckes of better equipage:

But since he died and Poets better prove,

Theirs for their stile ile read, his for his love.