LXVIII
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,Before these bastard signs of fair were born,Or durst inhabit on a living brow;Before the golden tresses of the dead,The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,To live a second life on second head;Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay:In him those holy antique hours are seen,Without all ornament, itself and true,Making no summer of another’s green,Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;And him as for a map doth Nature store,To show false Art what beauty was of yore.