William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

From “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” Act IV. Scene 3

SO sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,

As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote

The night of dew that on my cheek down flows:

Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright

Through the transparent bosom of the deep,

As doth thy face through tears of mine give light:

Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep;

No drop but as a coach doth carry thee,

So ridest thou triumphing in my woe:

Do but behold the tears that swell in me,

And they thy glory through my grief will show:

But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep

My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.

O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel,

No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell!