Those parts of thee that the worlds eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All toungs (the voice of soules) giue thee that due,
Vttring bare truth, euen so as foes Commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crownd,
But those same toungs that giue thee so thine owne,
In other accents doe this praise confound,
By seeing farther then the eye hath showne;
They looke into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guesse they measure by thy deeds;
Then churls their thoughts (although their eies were kind)
To thy faire flower ad the rancke smell of weeds.
But why thy odor matcheth not thy show,
The soyle is this, that thou doest common grow.
Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Utt’ring bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned,
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound,
By seeing further than the eye hath shown;
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guess they measure by thy deeds;
Then churls their thoughts — although their eyes were kind —
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds.
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.