Sonnet LXXIX

Men call you fair, and you do credit it,

For that yourself ye daily such do see:

But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,

And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me:

For all the rest, however fair it be,

Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue;

But only that is permanent and free

From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.

That is true beauty: that doth argue you

To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; —

Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true

And perfect beauty did at first proceed:

He only fair, and what He fair hath made;

All other fair, like flowers, untimely fade.