Shakespeare Sonnet 81

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Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

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Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;

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From hence your memory death cannot take,

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Although in me each part will be forgotten.

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Your name from hence immortal life shall have,

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Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:

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The earth can yield me but a common grave,

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When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.

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Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

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Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,

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And tongues to be your being shall rehearse

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When all the breathers of this world are dead;

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You still shall live -- such virtue hath my pen --

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Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.