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 deceased 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'