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Act I, Scene 17

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  • Shakespeare. Who will believe my verse in time to come, 225
    If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
    Though yet, heaven 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, 230
    The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
    Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd 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 235
    And stretched metre of an antique song:
    But were some child of yours alive that time,
    You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

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