Stella, while now, by honour's cruel might, I am from you, light of my life, misled, And that fair you, my sun, thus overspread With absence' veil, I live in sorrow's night; If this dark place yet show, like candle light, Some beauty's piece, as amber-coloured head, Milk hands, rose cheeks, or lips more sweet, more red, Or seeing jets, black, but in blackness bright: They please, I do confess, they please mine eyes. But why? Because of you they models be, Models such be wood-globes of glistering skies. Dear, therefore be not jealous over me; If you hear that they seem my heart to move, Not them, O no, but you in them I love. |