1593-1603 by Shakespeare 
Sonnet 17 

1	Who will believe my verse in time to come
2	If it were filled with your most high deserts? 
3	Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
4	Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
5	If I could write the beauty of your eyes
6	And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
7	The age to come would say “This poet lies#
8	Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.”
9	So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
10	Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
11	And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage
12	And stretchèd metre of an antique song.
13	But were some child of yours alive that time,
14	You should live twice: in it, and in my rhyme.