Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent

Dear, if I with guile would gild a true intent,
Heaping flatt'ries that in heart were never meant:
Easily could I then obtain
What now in vain I force;
Falsehood much doth gain,
Truth yet holds the better course.

Love forbid that through dissembling I should thrive,
Or in praising you myself of truth deprive!
Let not your high thoughts debase
A simple truth in me:
Great is Beauty's grace,
Truth is yet as fair as she!

Praise is but the wind of pride, if it exceeds;
Wealth, prized in itself, no outward value needs.
Fair you are, and passing fair;
You know it, and 'tis true:
Yet let none despair
But to find as fair as you.