Sonnet 70

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;

The ornament of beauty is suspect,

A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air;

So thou be good, slander doth but approve

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

For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

And thou present’st a pure unstainèd prime.

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

Either not assail’d, or victor, being charged;

Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

To tie up envy evermore enlarged:

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

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

Let the rumors carry. Let them vilify you.

That won’t be your fault, nor a flaw on you.

In fact, it shows your beauty more true.

What I doubt is gold that lets no trespass through.

What the hateful say to spite you

Only proves how good you are.

And in time, even they will like you:

Goodness will take you that far.

When you’re young, the bad will ambush you;

In the end, they’ll walk away or lose.

But how can this be good of you—

To stir up envy and garner abuse?

Well, if no one raised any doubts,

You’d tyrannize all of our hearts.