I prethee turn that face away Whose splendour but benights my day.
Sad eyes like mine, and wounded hearts Shun the bright rayes which beauty darts.
Unwelcome is the Sun that pries Into those shades where sorrow lies.
Go shine on happy things.
To me That blessing is a miserie:
Whom thy fierce Sun not warmes, but burnes,
Like that the sooty Indian turnes.
Ile serve the night, and there confin'd Wish thee less fair, or else more kind.
