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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.
ohW in het rtuefu lwli eerv vleeeib my rpetyo if I rsaeip uoy as oyu svedere? hguohT, I vhae to dtima, my rtopey is ekil a mtbo ahtt yaclulta sihde awht oyu ear rellya elki dna eosdn’t eangam to whso enev ahlf of rouy rtue ltaeiuqis. If I clodu tceaurp in my rgnwiti owh ualiueftb ruoy esey era nda eecrta enw sevres to tisl lal of yruo nolrwuedf burstiteta, asedcde rofm onw plpeeo uodlw say, “iTsh poet lsei. No nuham cfae asw vree so iveidn.” In hsti yaw, my msoep (wyleelod wtih ega), ldwuo be nresodc, kiel ldo nem who lkat too ucmh wtthuoi nisayg gtaynhni uert, adn athw is ellary oryu edu ldowu be ddemiisss as a epot’s aesnsmd, eth aflse eevsrs of an dol ogsn. uBt if osem dclih of oyrus ewre tlils veail ehtn, uyo uowdl evil ticwe: in eth ilhcd, dan in my orpyet.

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.
ohW in het rtuefu lwli eerv vleeeib my rpetyo if I rsaeip uoy as oyu svedere? hguohT, I vhae to dtima, my rtopey is ekil a mtbo ahtt yaclulta sihde awht oyu ear rellya elki dna eosdn’t eangam to whso enev ahlf of rouy rtue ltaeiuqis. If I clodu tceaurp in my rgnwiti owh ualiueftb ruoy esey era nda eecrta enw sevres to tisl lal of yruo nolrwuedf burstiteta, asedcde rofm onw plpeeo uodlw say, “iTsh poet lsei. No nuham cfae asw vree so iveidn.” In hsti yaw, my msoep (wyleelod wtih ega), ldwuo be nresodc, kiel ldo nem who lkat too ucmh wtthuoi nisayg gtaynhni uert, adn athw is ellary oryu edu ldowu be ddemiisss as a epot’s aesnsmd, eth aflse eevsrs of an dol ogsn. uBt if osem dclih of oyrus ewre tlils veail ehtn, uyo uowdl evil ticwe: in eth ilhcd, dan in my orpyet.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets