| |
|
LXXXII.
I
grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore
mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words
which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing
every book
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And
therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher
stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet
when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric
can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And
their gross painting might be better used
Where
cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.
|
|
|
