William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].
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In prayse of her beautie though black. [Sonnet CXXVII / Sonnet CXXX / Sonnet CXXXI / Sonnet CXXXII]
In the old age black was not counted faire,
Or if it were it bore not beauties name:
But now is blacke beauties successive heire,
And Beautie slanderd with a bastard shame,
For since each hand hath put on Natures power,
Fairing the foule with Arts false borrow'd face,
Sweet beautie hath no name no holy bower,
But is prophan'd, if not, lives in disgrace.
Therefore my Mistresse eyes are Raven blacke,
Her eyes so suted, and they mourners seeme,
At such who not borne faire no beautie lack,
Slandering Creation with a false esteeme,
Yet so they mourne becomming of their woe,
That every tongue sayes beautie should looke so,
My Mistresse 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 have 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 Mistresse reekes.
I love to heare her speake, yet well I know,
That Musicke hath a farre more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddesse goe,
My Mistresse when shee walkes treads on the ground,
And yet by heaven I thinke my love as rare,
As any she beli'd with false compare.
Thou art a tiranous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruell;
For well thou know'st to my deare doting heart
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 love 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 doe witnesse beare
Thy black is fairest in my judgements place.
In nothing art thou blacke save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander as I thinke proceeds.
Thine eyes I love, and they as pittying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdaine,
Have put on blacke, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my paine.
And truly not the morning Sun of Heaven
Better becomes the gray cheekes of th'East,
Nor that full starre that ushers in the Even
Doth halfe that glory to the sober West
As those two morning eyes become thy face:
O let it then as well beseeme thy heart
-- --
To mourne for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And sute thy pittie like in every part.
Then will I sweare beauty her selfe is blacke,
And all they foule that thy complection lacke.
William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].
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