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 smell far worse than weeds. XCV. How sweet and lovely doft thou make the shame XCVI. Some fay, thy fault is youth, some wantonness; 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; Or, if they fing, 'tis with fo dull a cheer G 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 rofe; Yet feem'd it winter ftill, and, you away, |