For beyng absent from your sighte, Which are my ioy and whole delight My comfort and my pleasure to, How can I ioy how should I do? (65) May sick men laugh that rore for paine? Ioy they in song that do complaine? Are martirs in their tormentes glad? Do pleasures please them that are mad? Then how may I in comfort be, (70) That lacke the thing should comfort me. The blind man oft that lackes his sight, Complaines not most the lacke of light. But those that knewe their perfectnes, And then do misse ther blisfulnes. (75) In martirs tunes they syng and waile, The want of that which doth them faile. And hereof comes that in my braines, So many fansies worke my paines For when I wayghe your worthynes, (80) Your wisdome and your gentlnes, Your vertues and your sundry grace, And minde the countenaunce of your face, And how that you are she alone, To whom I must both plaine and mone. (85) whom I do loue and must do still. whom I embrace and ay so wil, To serue and please you as I can, As may a wofull faithful man. And finde my selfe so far you fro. (90) God knowes what torment, and what wo, My rufull hart doth then imbrace. The blood then chaungeth in my face. My synnewes dull, in dompes I stand. No life I fele in fote nor hand. (95) As pale as any clout and ded, Lo sodenly the blood orespred, And gon againe it nill so bide. And thus from life to death I slide As colde sometymes as any stone, (100) And then againe as hote anone. Thus comes and goes my sundry fits, To geue me sundri sortes of wits.