Sonnet 7

WHen nature made her chiefe worke, Stellas eyes,
In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?
Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre mixte with shaddowes light?
Or did she els that sober hewe deuise,
In obiect best, to strength and knitt our sight:
Least if no vaile these braue beames did disguise,
They Sun-like would more dazell than delight.
Or would she her miraculous power shewe,
That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie,
Shee euen in blacke doth make all Beauties flowe:
But so and thus, she minding Loue should bee
Plaste euer there, gaue him this mourning weede:
To honour all their deathes, who for her bleede.