Thus is his cheeke the map of daies out-worne,
When beauty liv'd and dy'd as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signes of faire were borne,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow:
Before the goulden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchers were shorne away,
To live a second life on second head,
Ere beauties dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique howers are seene,
Without all ornament, it selfe and true,
Making no summer of an others greene,
Robbing no old to dresse his beautie new,
  And him as for a map doth Nature store,
  To show false Art what beautie was of yore.
Those parts of thee that the worlds eye doth view,
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend:
All tongues (the voice of soules) give thee that end,
Vttring bare truth, even so as foes Commend.
Their outward thus with outward praise is crownd,
But those same tongues that give thee so thine owne,
In other accents doe this praise confound
By seeing farther then the eye hath showne.
They looke into the beautie of thy mind,
And that in guesse they measure by thy deeds,
Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind)
To thy faire flower adde the ranke smell of weeds,
  But why thy odor matcheth not thy show,
  The soyle is this, that thou doest common grow.

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