Sonnet LXX

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,	1
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;	2
The ornament of beauty is suspect,	3
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.	4
So thou be good, slander doth but approve	5
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;	6
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,	7
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.	8
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,	9
Either not assail'd or victor being charged;	10
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,	11
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:	12
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,	13
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.	14