XIV

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 rise Doth 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.