LXX
That thou art blam’d shall not be thy defect,For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;The ornament of beauty is suspect,A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.So thou be good, slander doth but approveThy worth the greater being woo’d of time;For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,And thou present’st a pure unstained prime.Thou hast passed by the ambush of young daysEither not assail’d, or victor being charg’d;Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,To tie up envy, evermore enlarg’d,If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show,Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.