XIVGood night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share:She bade good night that kept my rest away;And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care,To descant on the doubts of my decay.“Farewell,” quoth she, “and come again tomorrow:”Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow.Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,In scorn or friendship, nill I conster whether:’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile,’T may be, again to make me wander thither:“Wander,” a word for shadows like myself,As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!My heart doth charge the watch; the morning riseDoth cite each moving sense from idle rest.Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,And drives away dark dreaming night.The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty;Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight;Sorrow chang’d to solace, solace mix’d with sorrow;For why, she sigh’d, and bade me come tomorrow.Were I with her, the night would post too soon;But now are minutes added to the hours;To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:Short, night, tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.
Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share:She bade good night that kept my rest away;And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care,To descant on the doubts of my decay.“Farewell,” quoth she, “and come again tomorrow:”Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,In scorn or friendship, nill I conster whether:’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile,’T may be, again to make me wander thither:“Wander,” a word for shadows like myself,As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!My heart doth charge the watch; the morning riseDoth cite each moving sense from idle rest.Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,And drives away dark dreaming night.The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty;Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight;Sorrow chang’d to solace, solace mix’d with sorrow;For why, she sigh’d, and bade me come tomorrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;But now are minutes added to the hours;To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:Short, night, tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.