Sonnet 43

WIndow sometime which served for a Spheare
To that deare Planet of my heart, whose light
Made often blush the glorious Queen of Night,
While She in thee more beautious did appeare,
What mourning weeds (alas) dost thou now weare?
How loathsome to my eyes is thy sad sight?
How poorly look'st thou, with what heavy cheare,
Since sets that Sun which made thee shine so bright?
Unhappy now thee close, for as of late
To wondring Eyes thou wert a Paradise,
Bereft of her who made thee fortunate,
A gulfe thou art whence clouds of sighs arise:
But unto none so noysome as to me,
Who hourely sees my murthered joyes in thee.