Sonet 56 A Consonet

A poem by Michael Drayton

Eyes with your teares, blind if you bee,
Why haue these teares such eyes to see,
Poore eyes, if yours teares cannot moue,
My teares, eyes, then must mone my loue,
Then eyes, since you haue lost your sight,
Weepe still, and teares shall lend you light,
Till both desolu'd, and both want might.
No, no, cleere eyes, you are not blind,
But in my teares discerne my mind:
Teares be the language which you speake,
Which my hart wanting, yet must breake;
My tongue must cease to tell my wrongs,
And make my sighs to get them tongs,
Yet more then this to her belongs.

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