In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's fucceffive heir,
And beauty flander'd with a bastard shame :
For fince each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in difgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
eyes fo fuited, and they mourners seem At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so.
How oft, when thou, my mufic, music play'st
Upon that bleffed wood whofe motion founds
With thy fweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilft my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be fo tickled, they would change their state
And fituation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since faucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no fooner but despised straight;
Paft reafon hunted; and no fooner had,
Paft reafon hated, as a fwallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad :
Mad in pursuit, and in poffeffion fo;
Had, having, and in queft to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy propofed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows To fhun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the fun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If fnow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no fuch roses fee I in her cheeks;
And in fome perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing found:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Thou art as tyrannous, fo as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'ft to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err I dare not be fo bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be fure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is faireft in my judgement's place.
In nothing art thou black fave in thy deeds,
And thence this flander, as I think, proceeds.
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