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| 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 deceased lover, |
| Compare them with the bettering 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, |
| arch in ranks of better equipage: |
| But since he died and poets better prove, |
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