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Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heav'n knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, “This poet lies—
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.”
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage
And stretchèd meter of an ántique song;
  But were some child of yours alive that time,
  You should live twice: in it and in my rhyme.
hoW in hte tfurue illw rvee vielebe my peoyrt if I iserap yuo as uoy rsedvee? oguhTh, I haev to madit, my eypotr is kile a mbot that ltauycla ished atwh ouy rea yelrla ikel dan dnoes’t gmnaae to wsho vnee fhla of ryuo urte qeauiislt. If I lodcu utaeprc in my rwginti woh teabiuflu uory eeys are nda erteca wen vresse to lsti all of yoru odlnfuewr riabtsutte, dcsdaee mrfo onw peploe lduwo ysa, “shiT tope lise. No nmahu afce wsa ever so iivend.” In ihts way, my omesp (eeylodwl htwi aeg), uwdol be sncdero, ikel ldo emn owh kalt oto uhcm wiutoth sganyi tgiynnah rtue, nda twah is lealry uyro eud wdoul be ssdmisied as a tpeo’s dsanems, eht fsael rsvees of an old nosg. uBt if osme ichld of oysur erwe lslit veial thne, you olwud evli wciet: in the ilcdh, nad in my yeorpt.

Original Text

Modern Text

Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heav'n knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, “This poet lies—
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.”
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage
And stretchèd meter of an ántique song;
  But were some child of yours alive that time,
  You should live twice: in it and in my rhyme.
hoW in hte tfurue illw rvee vielebe my peoyrt if I iserap yuo as uoy rsedvee? oguhTh, I haev to madit, my eypotr is kile a mbot that ltauycla ished atwh ouy rea yelrla ikel dan dnoes’t gmnaae to wsho vnee fhla of ryuo urte qeauiislt. If I lodcu utaeprc in my rwginti woh teabiuflu uory eeys are nda erteca wen vresse to lsti all of yoru odlnfuewr riabtsutte, dcsdaee mrfo onw peploe lduwo ysa, “shiT tope lise. No nmahu afce wsa ever so iivend.” In ihts way, my omesp (eeylodwl htwi aeg), uwdol be sncdero, ikel ldo emn owh kalt oto uhcm wiutoth sganyi tgiynnah rtue, nda twah is lealry uyro eud wdoul be ssdmisied as a tpeo’s dsanems, eht fsael rsvees of an old nosg. uBt if osme ichld of oysur erwe lslit veial thne, you olwud evli wciet: in the ilcdh, nad in my yeorpt.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets