And captive good attending captain ill.
Sonnet lxvi.
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
Sonnet lxx.
That time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,—
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Sonnet lxxiii.