Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign grace Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit, Whilst I in darkness, in the self-same place, Get not one glance to recompense my merit? So doth the plowman gaze the wand`ring star, And only rest contented with the light, That never learn`d what constellations are Beyond the bent of his unknowing sight. O why should Beauty, custom to obey, To their gross sense apply herself so ill? Would God I were as ignorant as they, When I am made unhappy by my skill, Only compell`d on this poor good to boast: Heav`ns are not kind to them that know them most.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
