Ch. 806: XIV

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.