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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 false Art what beauty was of yore.

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 feeing 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.

LXX.

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

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 present'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.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you fhall hear the furly fullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vileft worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I fay, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not fo much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;
Left the wife world should look into your moan,

And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXII.

O, left the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise fome virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart :
O, left your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.

For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And fo fhould you, to love things nothing worth.

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