XCIV. They that have power to hurt and will do none, The fummer's flower is to the summer sweet, But if that flower with base infection meet, The baseft weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn soureft by their deeds; Lilies that fefter fmell far worse than weeds. XCV. How sweet and lovely doft thou make the shame G XCVI. Some fay, thy fault is youth, fome wantonnefs; The basest jewel will be well esteem'd, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths tranflated and for true things deem'd. As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. XCVII. How like a winter hath my absence been But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near. XCVIII. From you have I been absent in the spring, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; Yet feem'd it winter ftill, and, you away, |