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LXIX.

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues, the voice of fouls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.

Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound

By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,

And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;

Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes

were kind,

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The foil is this, that thou doft common grow.

کی

LXX.

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For flander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,

A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, flander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou prefent'st a pure, unstained prime.
Thou haft paff'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not affail'd, or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:

If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe,