Sonnet 69

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth viewWant nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;All tongues—the voice of souls—give thee that due,Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. 4Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,In other accents do this praise confoundBy seeing farther than the eye hath shown. 8They look into the beauty of thy mind,And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;Then,—churls,—their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: 12But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.

14 soil; cf. n.common: too accessible