Shakespeare Sonnets reads Nikolay Obabkov <br /> <br />WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE <br />Sonnet XVII <br /> <br />Who will believe my verse in time to come, <br />If it were fill'd 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 /> <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 touch'd earthly faces.' <br /> <br />So should my papers yellow'd with their age <br />Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, <br />And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage <br />And stretched metre of an antique song: <br /> <br />But were some child of yours alive that time, <br />You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
