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 heav'n
Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the ev'n
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.
I love your eyes, and they seem to pity me, knowing I’m tormented by your disdain. In black, they look like mourners at a funeral, gazing at my pain with pretty compassion. And to tell the truth, the morning sun doesn’t look as good in the gray eastern sky, nor does the evening star look half as good in the western twilight, as those two mourning eyes look in your face. Oh, then I hope it would be just as beautiful for your heart to pity me, too, since mourning suits you so well, and for you to pity me with every other part of you to match. If you take pity on me, I’ll swear beauty itself is black, and everyone who doesn’t have your dark complexion is ugly.