XCIII

    So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband； so love's face May still seem love to me, though alter'd new； Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place： For there can live no hatred¹ in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. In many's looks, the false heart's history Is writ² in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell； Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue³ answer not thy show！