Sonnet 70
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 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 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