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XCIII



So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

Like a deceived husband; so love\'s face

May still seem love to me, though alter\'d new;

Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:

For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

In many\'s looks, the false heart\'s history

Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange. 

But heaven in thy creation did decree

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;

Whate\'er thy thoughts, or thy heart\'s workings be,

Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.

  How like Eve\'s apple doth thy beauty grow,

  If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!



XCIV



They that have power to hurt, and will do none,

That do not do the thing they most do show,

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;

They rightly do inherit heaven\'s graces,

And husband nature\'s riches from expense;

They are the lords and owners of their faces,

Others, but stewards of their excellence.

The summer\'s flower is to the summer sweet,

Though to itself, it only live and die,

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity: 

  For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

  Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

 	--William Shakespeare

CVIII



What\'s in the brain, that ink may character,

Which hath not figur\'d to thee my true spirit?

What\'s new to speak, what now to register,

That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

I must each day say o\'er the very same;

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, 

Even as when first I hallow\'d thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love\'s fresh case,

Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page;

  Finding the first conceit of love there bred,

  Where time and outward form would show it dead.

 	--William Shakespeare