Sonnet LXX. What can these wrinkles and vain tears portend

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

WHAT can these wrinkles and vain tears portend,

But thine hard favour, and indurate heart?

What shew these sighs, which from my soul I send,

But endless smoke, raised from a fiery smart?

Canst thou not pity my deep wounded breast?

Canst thou not frame those eyes to cast a smile?

Wilt thou, with no sweet sentence make me blest?

To make amends, wilt thou not sport a while?

Shall we not, once, with our opposed ey’n,

In interchange, send golden darts rebated?

With short reflexion, ’twixt thy brows and mine;

Whilst love with thee, of my griefs hath debated?

Those eyes of love were made for love to see!

And cast regards on others, not on me!