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XXVIII



How can I then return in happy plight,

That am debarre\'d the benefit of rest?

When day\'s oppression is not eas\'d by night,

But day by night and night by day oppress\'d,

And each, though enemies to either\'s reign,

Do in consent shake hands to torture me,

The one by toil, the other to complain

How far I toil, still farther off from thee. 

I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,

And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:

So flatter I the swart-complexion\'d night,

When sparkling stars twire not thou gild\'st the even.

  But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

  And night doth nightly make grief\'s length seem stronger.

 	--William Shakespeare

XXIV



Mine eye hath play\'d the painter and hath stell\'d,

Thy beauty\'s form in table of my heart;

My body is the frame wherein \'tis held,

And perspective it is best painter\'s art.

For through the painter must you see his skill,

To find where your true image pictur\'d lies,

Which in my bosom\'s shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; 

  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,

  They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

 	--William Shakespeare