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LXX.
That
thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For
slander'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, slander 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 hast pass'd
by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'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.
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