William Shakespeare - Sonnet 17 - David Tennant

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David Tennant reads Shakespeare's Sonnet 17

Sonnet 17
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heav'n 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 heav'nly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces."
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,
And stretchèd metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice — in it and in my rhyme.