Sonnet

They that have powre to hurt, and will doe none,
That doe not do the things, they most doe showe,
Who moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmooved, could, and to temptation slow;

They rightly do inherit heavens graces,
And husband natures ritches from expence,
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence;

The sommers flowre is to the sommer sweet,
Though to it selfe, it onely live and die ,
But if that flowre with base infection meete,
The basest weed out-braves his dignity;

For sweetest things turne sowrest by their deedes,
Lillies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

William Shakespeare