THine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning Sun of Heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of th' East, Nor that full Star that ushers in the Even Doth half that glory to the sober West As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty her self is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
