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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 touch'd
earthly faces.
Sweets with sweets war not, joy
delights in joy.......
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.