XVII. Who will believe my verse in time to come, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would fay This poet lies; your true rights be term'd a poet's rage XVIII. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Nor lofe poffeffion of that fair thou oweft, Nor fhall death brag thou wander'ft in his fhade, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, XIX. Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, K But I forbid thee one moft heinous crime: A O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to fucceeding men. Yet do thy worft, old Time: defpite thy wrong, My love fhall in my verse ever live young. XX. A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted A man in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's fouls amazeth. Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. XXI. So is it not with me as with that Muse |