When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses;
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade; 10
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth.
William Shakespeare.
XXXI
SONNET.
A good that never satisfies the mind,