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Rh

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow; Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulehres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head; Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
 * And him as for a map doth Nature store,
 * To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

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, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther 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.