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.