The Sonnets

That thou art blamʼd shall not be thy defect,

For slanderʼs mark was ever yet the fair;

The ornament of beauty is suspect,

A crow that flies in heavenʼs sweetest air.

So thou be good, slander doth but approve

Thy worth the greater being wooʼd of time;

For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

And thou presentʼst a pure unstained prime.

Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days

Either not assailʼd, or victor being chargʼd;

Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

To tie up envy, evermore enlargʼd,

If some suspect of ill maskʼd not thy show,

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.