Sonnet 132


  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.


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