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LXXXIII.
I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore
to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I
found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's
debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How
far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of
worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for
my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory,
being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There
lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both
your poets can in praise devise.
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