Sonnet 82
I grant thou wert not married to my MuseAnd therefore mayst without attaint o'erlookThe dedicated words which writers useOf their fair subject, blessing every bookThou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,And therefore art enforced to seek anewSome fresher stamp of the time-bettering daysAnd do so, love; yet when they have devisedWhat strained touches rhetoric can lend,Thou truly fair wert truly sympathizedIn true plain words by thy true-telling friend; And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.
There once was a time (not too distant)when beauty was but my assistant.These flatterer's verseswill bring me to cursesfrom rhetoric far too insistent.