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Sonnet LXX

by
 That thou art blamed 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 approve Thy 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 pass'd by the ambush of young days, Either not assail'd or victor being charged; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy evermore enlarged: If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

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