How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose.
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
O! what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot
And all things turns to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-us’d doth lose his edge.
In plain English
You have such grace and beauty that even your wrongdoing becomes beautiful. Your scandals cling to you like disease on a perfect rose, but somehow your charm transforms them into something lovely. When people gossip about your behavior, their words end up praising you instead of damning you—just speaking your name makes even bad reports sound good.
Your vices have found the perfect home in you, because your beauty covers every flaw like a veil. Everything about you gets gilded by how stunning you are. But listen: this power you have—this ability to make sin look like virtue—is a gift you can squander. Even the sharpest blade grows dull if you keep using it the wrong way.
