LXIX



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 soil is this, that thou dost common grow.

 	--William Shakespeare

CXVII



Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all,

Wherein I should your great deserts repay,

Forgot upon your dearest love to call, 

Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;

That I have frequent been with unknown minds,

And given to time your own dear-purchas'd right;

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

Which should transport me farthest from your sight.

Book both my wilfulness and errors down,

And on just proof surmise, accumulate;

Bring me within the level of your frown,

But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;

  Since my appeal says I did strive to prove

  The constancy and virtue of your love.

 	--William Shakespeare