LXXXVI.

Since I did leave the presence of my Love,
Many long weary dayes I have outworne,
And many nights, that slowly seemd to move
Theyr sad protract from evening untill morn. 
For, when as day the heaven doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end: 
And when as night hath us of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend. 
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,
That further seemes his terme still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a myle. 
  So sorrowe still doth seem too long to last;
  But ioyous houres do fly away too fast.

LXXXVII.

Since I have lackt the comfort of that light
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray,
I wander as in darknesse of the night,
Affrayd of every dangers least dismay. 
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
When others gaze upon theyr shadowes vayne,
But th’only image of that heavenly ray
Whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne. 
Of which beholding the idaea playne,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I doe my self sustayne,
And thereon feed my love-affamisht hart. 
  But with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,
  I starve my body, and mine eyes doe blynd.

LXXXVIII.

Lyke as the culver* on the bared bough
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And in her songs sends many a wishful vow
For his returns, that seemes to linger late,
So I alone, how left disconsolate,
Mourne to my selfe the absence of my Love;
And wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove
Ne ioy of ought that under heaven doth hove**,
Can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight,
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight. 
  Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
  And dead my life that wants such lively blis.
[* Culver, dove.]
[** Hove, hover, exist.]

* * * * *

EPITHALAMION.

Ye learned Sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, 5
But ioyed in theyr praise,
And when ye list your own mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament 10
Your dolefull dreriment,
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And having all your heads with girlands crownd,
Helpe me mine owne Loves prayses to resound: 
Ne let the same of any be envide:  15
So Orpheus did for his owne bride;
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;
The woods shall to me answer, and my eccho ring.