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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=539179" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=539179" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Who will believe my verse in time to come<br>If it were filled with your most high deserts?<br>Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb<br>Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:<br>If I could write the beauty of your eyes,<br>And in fresh numbers number all your graces,<br>The age to come would say, "This poet lies,<br>Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces."<br>So should my papers, yellowed with their age,<br>Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,<br>And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,<br>And stretchèd metre of an antique song.<br> But were some child of yours alive that time,<br> You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=William+Shakespeare">William Shakespeare</a></strong></div>

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