Sonnet CLXXXVIII:
My darling’s features, painted by the light;
As in the convex of a mirror, see
Her face diminished so fantastically
It scarcely hints her lovely self aright.
Away, poor mockery! My outraged sight
Turns from the fraud you perpetrate on me;
This is no transcript, but a forgery,
As far from semblance as is black from white.
Breathe, smile, blush, kiss me! Murmur in my ear
The things we know—we only! and give heed
To this deep sigh and this descending tear,
Ere from my senses you can win the meed
Of faith, to make your doubtful title clear,
And so convince me you are she indeed.
