Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
In plain English
I love your eyes, and they seem to pity me even as your heart refuses and torments me with coldness. Your eyes have turned dark and they mourn my suffering with genuine tenderness. Black looks better on you than the morning sun does on the eastern sky, or the evening star on the western horizon.
Those dark, mournful eyes suit your face perfectly. So let your heart mourn for me too, since mourning actually becomes you and makes you look beautiful. If you match your outward pity with real compassion in every way, I'll declare that true beauty is black—and call every other complexion ugly by comparison.
