XCII. But do thy worst to steal thyself away, Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, Than that which on thy humour doth depend: Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's fo bleffed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. XCIII. So fhall I live, fuppofing thou art true, Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles ftrange, That in thy face fweet love should ever dwell; XCIV. They that have power to hurt and will do none, The fummer's flower is to the summer sweet, But if that flower with base infection meet, The baseft weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn soureft by their deeds; Lilies that fefter fmell far worse than weeds. XCV. How sweet and lovely doft thou make the shame XCVI. Some fay, thy fault is youth, fome wantonness; The basest jewel will be well esteem'd, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths tranflated and for true things deem'd. As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. |