Volta project, day 17

So it’s come to this:  It’s a Wednesday, and it’s just another crazy work day (instead of being my cozy mid-week break)  L  And the next two days stoutly promise to be even worse!

Sonnet seventeen:

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XVII

  Who will believe my verse in time to come,

  If it were fill'd 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 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 stretched metre of an antique song:

    But were some child of yours alive that time,

    You should live twice,--in it, and in my rhyme.

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At least the volta is pretty obvious today:  It’s the but at the beginning of the closing couplet.  More tomorrow (if I’m still alive tomorrow).