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 fun of heaven
Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east,
Nor that full ftar that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the fober weft,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well befeem thy heart

To mourn for me, fince mourning doth thee grace,
And fuit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I fwear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.