DOST thou still hope thou shalt be fair, When no more fair to me? Or those that by thee taken were Hold their captivity? Is this thy confidence? No, no; Trust it not; it can not be so. But thou too late, too late shalt find 'Twas I that made thee fair; Thy beauties never from thy mind But from my loving were; And those delights that did thee stole Confessed the vicinage of my soul. The rosy reflex of my heart Did thy pale cheek attire; And what I was, not what thou art, Did gazers-on admire. Go, and too late thou shalt confess I looked thee into loveliness! |