Shakespeare's Sonnet 32

If thou survive my well-contented day,When that churl Death my bones with dust shall coverAnd shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,Exceeded by the height of happier men.O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:‘Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age,A dearer birth than this his love had brought,To march in ranks of better equipage:But since he died and poets better prove,Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love’.

If you outlive my happy days, when that brute Death covers my bones with dust, and you happen to look again at these poor, rough lines by your dead lover, compare them with the improved writing of your time. Though every writer surpasses them, keep them for my love, not for their poetry, which more fortunate writers have carried to greater heights. Then grant me just this loving thought: If my friend's poetic gift had grown along with this advancing age, his love would have produced something finer, worthy to stand among these better-equipped poems. But since he died, and poets now write better, I will read theirs for their style and his for his love.