How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise,
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turns to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 154: The Little Love-God Lying Once Asleep
- Sonnet 140: Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel; Do Not Press
- Sonnet 66: Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry
- Sonnet 143: Lo, As A Careful Huswife Runs To Catch
- Sonnet 122: Thy Gift, Thy Tables, Are Within My Brain