Sonnet 82
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlookThe dedicated words which writers useOf their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;And therefore art enforced to seek anewSome fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd,What strained touches rhetoric can lend,Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'dIn true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better usedWhere cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.