LXXXII

    I grant thou wert not married to my Muse¹, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated² words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing³ every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue⁴, 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 devis'd, What strained touches rhetoric⁵ can lend, Thou  truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend； And their gross painting might be better us'd Where cheeks need blood； in thee it is abus'd.