How many paltry, foolish, painted things, <br />That now is coaches trouble every street, <br />Shall be forgotten, whom no Poet sings, <br />Ere they be well wrapt in their winding-sheet. <br />Where I to thee eternity shall give, <br />When nothing else remaineth of these days, <br />And Queens hereafter shall be glad to live <br />Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise. <br />Virgins and matrons, reading these my rhymes, <br />Shall be so much delighted with thy story <br />That they shall grieve they liv'd not in these times, <br />To have seen thee, their sex's only glory. <br />So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, <br />Still to survive in my immortal song.<br /><br />Michael Drayton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-vi-how-many-paltry-things/
