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CXXXII.
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 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.
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