- Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
- Knowing thy heart torment 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 the 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 herself is black,
- And all they foul that thy complexion lack.