O,
how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By
that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The
rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For
that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The
canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As
the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang
on such thorns and play as wantonly
When
summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But,
for their virtue only is their show,
They
live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die
to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of
their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And
so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When
that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
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