Sonnet 82
b"
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayest without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of 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 enforc'd to seek anew
Some 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'd
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0And their gross painting might be better us'd
\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abus'd.