The Sonnets

In the old age black was not counted fair,

Or if it were, it bore not beautyʼs name;

But now is black beautyʼs successive heir,

And beauty slanderʼd with a bastard shame:

For since each hand hath put on Natureʼs power,

Fairing the foul with Artʼs false borrowed face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

But is profanʼd, if not lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistressʼ eyes are raven black,

Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem

At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Slandʼring creation with a false esteem:

Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should look so.