That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel

Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon?

Entereth the Sonneteth. A Dropper Namme John Hemminge and Henry Condell were fellowes of this Barded One. They gave and gave and gave.

Sonnet 17 Who will believe my verse in time to come

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

we were writting in clairvouyence mode
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Twas Iron Man we were writting of.
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

that suit of armour that he wore so red and gold
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

we never see behind the mask of Irony
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

the military aspects
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:

there is no Iron Man there is no god
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

withe marks of wounds lest Jesus surface
So should my papers yellow'd with their age

the poet falters in the face of this insurgence
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,

this man of Iron is purley comical
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

iff this be true let poets rage on pages of periodicals
And stretched metre of an antique song:

I am Iron Mon(sic)
But were some child of yours alive that time,

this young CharlaX wept on every comix page
You should live twice; in it and in my rhymed verses

you can guess the meaning of the ages comes

this Iron Man song

and dances.