"Sonnets 17 & 18" by Shakespeare.

"Sonnet 17."
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet Heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
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 never touched earthly faces."
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet´s rage
And stretched meter of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.

Author: William Shakespeare.

"Sonnet 18."

Shall I compare you to a summer´s day?
Your art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer´s lease has all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of Heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature´s changing course, untrimmed;
But the eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair you possess,
Nor shall Death brag the wander in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time you grow.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Author: William Shakespeare.