Sonnet CXLVIII:
They who have heard my song esteem the strain
As public music, rhymes of common worth,
Such as have every day an easy birth,
And scanty night in favor to remain.
I grant it may be I have sung in vain,
Scattered my seed about the barren earth,
Sowed for a harvest where I reaped but dearth,
And won for fee man’s tolerant disdain.
As I declare it, so the thing has been:
Mild praise, dim glory, these have been my cheer
And best return through many a toilsome year.
Yet when unnoticed I forsake this scene,
Shall I die wholly? Shall no spray of green
Start from my dust beneath thy sacred tear?
