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
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.
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 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.
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.
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 some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I Than niggard truth would willingly impart : your true love may seem false in this,
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 so should you, to love things nothing worth.
That time of year thou mayft in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds fang. In me thou fee'ft the twilight of such day
As after funset fadeth in the weft;
Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in reft. In me thou fee'ft the glowing of such fire, That on the afhes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Confumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more ftrong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
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