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CXXVII.
In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it
were, it bore not beauty's name; But now is black
beauty's successive heir, And beauty slander'd with a
bastard shame: For since each hand hath put on
nature's power, Fairing the foul with art's false
borrow'd face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy
bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black, Her
eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who,
not born fair, no beauty lack, Slandering creation
with a false esteem: Yet so they mourn, becoming of
their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look
so.
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