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| SONNET 69 |
| Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view |
| Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; |
| All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, |
| Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. |
| Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; |
| But those same tongues that give thee so thine own |
| In other accents do this praise confound |
| By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. |
| They look into the beauty of thy mind, |
| And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds; |
| Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, |
| To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: |
| But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, |
| The solve is this, that thou dost common grow. |
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