by William Shakespeare
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give:
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses;
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed and unrespected fade,
Die Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so:
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
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