[1] Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
[2] Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
[3] All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
[4] Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
[5] Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
[6] But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
[7] In other accents do this praise confound
[8] By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
[9] They look into the beauty of thy mind,
[10] And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
[11] Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
[12] To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
[13] But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
[14] The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.
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