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LIV.
O,
how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that
sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks
fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour
which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as
deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When
summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for
their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd
and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses
do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours
made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
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