Classic Poem

Sonet. 56.

Eyes with your teares, blind if you bee,
Why have these teares such eyes to see,
Poore eyes, if yours teares cannot move,
My teares, eyes, then must mone my love,
Then eyes, since you have lost your sight,
Weepe still, and teares shall lend you light,
Till both desolv'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.