The Sonnets

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,

And therefore mayst without attaint oʼerlook

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 devisʼd,

What strained touches rhetoric can lend,

Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathizʼd

In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;

And their gross painting might be better usʼd

Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abusʼd.