Sonnet Cxlix:

If not the painter's nor the sculptor's skill Can give thy beauty its entitled place; Catch the revealings of that subtle grace Whose charm eludes its imitation still; How can I hope, who every moment fill My heart with wonders from thy heavenly face, Seeing a light no other eyes can trace-- How can I hope to do thee aught but ill? The wretched mockery of this black and white Slanders thy favor o'er and o'er again, And stirs a discord betwixt heart and pen. In truth I marvel at the things I write; They seem so far from thy conceded right Such plain impostures in the sight of men.