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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 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 were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank
smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy
show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.
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