Charles Cotton (1630–1687)

WHY, dearest, shouldst thou weep, when I relate

The story of my woe?

Let not the swarthy mists of my black fate

O’ercast thy beauty so;

For each rich pearl lost on that score

Adds to mischance, and wounds your servant more.

Quench not those stars that to my bliss should guide;

Oh, spare that precious tear!

Nor let those drops unto a deluge tide,

To drown your beauty there;

That cloud of sorrow makes it night;

You lose your lustre, but the world its light.