S O N N E T S.

M Y Mistres eyes are nothing like the Sunne,
Currall is farre more red,then her lips red,
If snow be white,why then her brests are dun:
If haires be wiers,black wiers grow on her head:
I haue seene Roses damaskt,red and white,
But no such Roses see I in her cheekes,
And in some perfumes is there more delight,
Then in the breath that from my Mistres reekes.
I loue to heare her speake,yet well I know,
That Musicke hath a farre more pleasing sound:
I graunt I neuer saw a goddesse goe,
My Mistres when shee walkes treads on the ground.
   And yet by heauen I thinke my loue as rare,
   As any she beli'd with false compare.
T Hou art as tiranous,so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruell;
For well thou know'st to my deare doting hart
Thou art the fairest and most precious Iewell.
Yet in good faith some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make loue grone;
To say they erre,I dare not be so bold,
Although I sweare it to my selfe alone.
And to be sure that is not false I sweare
A thousand grones but thinking on thy face,
One on anothers necke do witnesse beare
Thy blacke is fairest in my iudgements place.
   In nothing art thou blacke saue in thy deeds,
And thence this slaunder as I thinke proceeds.
T Hine eies I loue,and they as pittying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdaine,
Haue put on black,and louing mourners bee,
Looking with pretty ruth vpon my paine.

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