Unhappy sight, and hath she vanish'd by
So near, in so good time, so free a place?
Dead glass, dost thou thy object so embrace,
As what my heart still sees thou canst not spy?
I swear by her I love and lack, that I
Was not in fault, who bend thy dazzling race
Only unto the heav'n of Stella's face,
Counting but dust what in the way did lie.
But cease, mine eyes; your tears do witness well
That you, guiltless thereof, your nectar miss'd:
Curs'd be the page from whom the bad torch fell.
Curs'd be the night which did your strife resist,
Curs'd be the coachman which did drive so fast,
With no worse curse than absence makes me taste.