Shakespeare Sonnet 132

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Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

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Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

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Have put on black and loving mourners be,

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Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

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And truly not the morning sun of heaven

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Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

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Nor that full star that ushers in the even

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Doth half that glory to the sober west,

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As those two mourning eyes become thy face:

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O, let it then as well beseem thy heart

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To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,

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And suit thy pity like in every part.

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Then will I swear beauty herself is black

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And all they foul that thy complexion lack.