Sonnet 82

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse

And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook

The dedicated words which writers use

Of their fair subject, blessing every book.

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,

Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,

And therefore art enforced to seek anew

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.

And do so, love; yet when they have devised

What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend,

Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized

In 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.

I know you were not married to me, muse,

And can take a peek at any book you choose,

Look over the words that others use,

And see the way they profit and amuse.

You’re just as savvy as you are a grace,

And your value’s higher than I can appraise.

You’d almost have to go somewhere else

To get full measure of your praise.

And do so, love. But when they’ve devised

And strained with all their capital and polish,

Remember that you were best realized

In simple terms by a friend you cherish.

And all their power might well be more needed

On lesser subjects. On you, it is conceited.