SONNET I prethee turn that face away

I prethee turn that face away

Whose splendour but benights my day.

Sad eyes like mine, and wounded hearts

Shun the bright rayes which beauty darts.

Unwelcome is the Sun that pries

Into those shades where sorrow lies.

Go shine on happy things. To me

That blessing is a miserie:

Whom thy fierce Sun not warmes, but burnes,

Like that the sooty Indian turnes.

Ile serve the night, and there confin'd

Wish thee less fair, or else more kind.