If thou survive my well-contented day...
Sonnet 32If 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, 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.' |
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If you outlive me (as I hope you do), when I’m dead, perhaps you'll re-read these unskilled poems from your amateurish lover, and compare them to the much-improved poetry of modern writers. Even though my pieces lose out to all the others in skill, please keep them, just for the love I wrote them with, if not the technique – which will have been far surpassed.
Just grant me this loving thought: “If my friend had lived longer, his art would have improved along with his age, and he’d have written better stuff for me. But as he’s dead, and other people have written better poems, I’ll read theirs for their skill, his for the love he wrote them with.”
Just grant me this loving thought: “If my friend had lived longer, his art would have improved along with his age, and he’d have written better stuff for me. But as he’s dead, and other people have written better poems, I’ll read theirs for their skill, his for the love he wrote them with.”