Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 67

Hope, art thou true, or dost thou flatter me?
      Doth Stella now begin with piteous eye
      The ruins of her conquest to espy:
Will she take time, before all wracked be?
Her eyes’ speech is translated thus by thee.
      But fail’st thou not in phrase so heavenly high?
      Look on again, the fair text better try:
What blushing notes dost thou in margin see?
      What sighs stolen out, or killed before full born?
Hast thou found such, and such-like arguments?
Or art thou else to comfort me foresworn?
Well, how so thou interpret the contents,
      I am resolved thy error to maintain,
      Rather than by more truth to get more pain.