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LXVI.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And pureft faith unhappily forfworn,
And gilded honour fhamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely ftrumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping fway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And fimple truth mifcalled fimplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill :

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

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 feeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indire@ly feek

Roses of shadow, fince 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.

ΙΟ

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 second 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.

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 souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those fame 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.

LXX.

That thou art blamed fhall 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 prefent'st a pure, unftained 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 fome fufpect of ill mask'd not thy show,

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

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