|
|
|
|
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, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song.William Shakespeare
The background image used on this page:
