Those parts of thee that the worlds eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend All tongues the voice of souls give thee that due Uttering bare truth even so as foes commend Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned But those same tongues that give thee so thine own In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown They look into the beauty of thy mind And that in guess they measure by thy deeds Then churls their thoughts although their eyes were kind To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds Why thy odor not matcheth thy show The soil is this that thou dost common grow