Sonnet 43 - O dearest eyes the lights

O dearest eyes the lights, and guides of love,

The joys of Cupid who, himself born blind,

To your bright shining doth his triumphs bind

For in your seeing doth his glory move;

How happy are those places where you prove

Your heavenly beams, which makes the Sun to find

Envy, and grudging he so long hath shined

That your clear light should match his beams above

But now, alas, your sight is here forbid

And darkness must these poor lost rooms possess

So be all blessed lights from henceforth hid

That this black deed in darkness have excess,

For why should heaven afford least light to those

Who for my misery this darkness chose.