Sonnet Lxx

William Shakespeare

     That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
     For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
     The ornament 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 vice the sweetest buds doth love,
     And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
     Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
     Either not assail'd or victor being charged;
     Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
     To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
     If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
     Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

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