XCI. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, But these particulars are not my measure; All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, XCII. But do thy worst to steal thyself away, Than that which on thy humour doth depend: O, what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's fo bleffed-fair that fears no blot? XCIII. So fhall I live, fuppofing thou art truc, Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles ftrange, That in thy face fweet love should ever dwell; Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy fweet virtue answer not thy show! 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 |