Good night, good rest: ah, neither be my share;She bade good night that kept my rest away;And daffed me to a cabin hanged with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay.
'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come again to-morrow';Fare well I could not, for I supped with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship nill I conster whether;'T may be, she joyed 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 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 packed, I post unto my pretty;Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight;Sorrow changed to solace and solace mixed with sorrow;For why, she sighed, and bade me come to-morrow.
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, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
