When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness.

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O! let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

Give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar.