1 Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it.
2 Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears.
3 Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face.
4 That is no slander, sir, which is a truth, And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
5 If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back than to your face.
6 Go thither and with unattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
7 Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.
8 Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare.
9 Why I descend into this bed of death Is partly to behold my lady's face, But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger A precious ring, a ring that I must use In dear employment.
10 Come gentle night, come loving black-brow'd night, Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.