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- CXXXII
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- 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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