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LXVII.

Ah, wherefore with infection should he live
And with his prefence grace impiety,
That fin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his fociety?

Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,

And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.

O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long fince, before these last so bad.

LXVIII.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,

Or durft inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden treffes of the dead,

The right of fepulchres, were fhorn away,
To live a fecond life on fecond head;

Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no fummer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new ;

And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show falfe Art what beauty was of yore.

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