LXVIII

    Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard¹ signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow； Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head； Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay： In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament², itself and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new； And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore.