Shakespeare Sonnet 70

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That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

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For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;

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The ornament of beauty is suspect,

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A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

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So thou be good, slander doth but approve

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Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;

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For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

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And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.

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Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,

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Either not assail'd or victor being charged;

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Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

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To tie up envy evermore enlarged:

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If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,

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Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.