LXX

    That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect, For slander¹'s mark was ever yet the fair； The ornament² of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater being woo'd of time； For canker vice³ the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush⁴ of young days Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd； Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd, If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.