If thou survive my well-contented day, <br /> When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, <br /> And shalt by fortune once more re-survey <br /> These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, <br /> Compare them with the bettering of the time, <br /> And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, <br /> Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, <br /> Exceeded by the height of happier men. <br /> O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: <br /> 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, <br /> A dearer birth than this his love had brought, <br /> To march in ranks of better equipage: <br /> But since he died and poets better prove, <br /> Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxii/
