Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another’s neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgement’s place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
In plain English
You're as cruel as any beautiful woman who knows her power and wields it. You hold my foolish, devoted heart completely—you're the most precious thing I know. But people say your face isn't classically lovely enough to inspire the kind of desperate longing beauty usually commands. I can't really argue with them, though I swear to myself alone that I would.
To prove I'm telling the truth about how much your face moves me, I offer this: I groan a thousand times just thinking about you, one gasp after another. Your darkness—your black hair, your dark complexion—is the most beautiful thing to me. You're only dark in your actions, in how you treat me. That's where all this criticism of you actually comes from.
