Nor yet in loue, who hath vouchsafed me, To knowe within this life so rare a blisse.
To grieue me of my sight, then comes to minde, (10) As head and author of my haples woes: But better afterward aduisde, I finde, That onely from hir lookes, all sweetnes floes.
And when iust cause of sorrowing doth faile, I waile in fine, bicause I cannot waile. +
D Iuide my times, and rate my wretched howres, +From day to month, from month to many yeeres, And then compare my sweetest to my sowres, To see which more in equall view appeeres, (5) And iudge, if for my daies and yeeres of care, I haue but howres of comfort to compare.
Iust and not much, it were in these extreemes, So hard a touch, and torment of the thought, For any minde, that any right esteemes, (10) To yeeld so small delite, so deerely bought, But he that liues but in his owne despite, Is not to finde his fortune by his right.
The life that still runs forth hir wearie waies, With sowre to sawce the dainties of delite, +(15) And care to choake the pleasure of hir daies, And no rewarde, those many wrongs to quite, No blame to holde such irksome time in hate, +As but to losse, prolongs a wretched state.
And so I loath, euen to behold the light, (20) That shines without all pleasure to mine eies, With greedie wish, I wait still for the night, Yet neither this I finde, that may suffice,