When night's blacke Mantle could most darknesse prove, 
     And sleepe (deaths Image) did my senses hyre, 
     From Knowledge of my selfe, then thoughts did move 
     Swifter then those, most switnesse neede require. 

In sleepe, a Chariot drawne by wing'd Desire, 
     I saw; where fate bright Venus Queene of Love, 
     And at her feete her Sonne, still adding Fire 
     To burning hearts, which she did hold above, 

But one heart flaming more then all the rest, 
     The Goddesse held, and put it to my breast, 
     Deare Sonne now shut, said she, thus must we winne; 

He her obeyd, and martyr'd my poore heart. 
     I waking hop'd as dreames it would depart, 
    Yet since, O me, a Lover I have beene.

The Spring now come at last
     To Trees, Fields, to Flowres,
And Meadowes makes to taste
     His pride, while sad showres
Which from mine eyes doe flow
     Makes knowne with cruell paines,
     Cold Winter yet remaines,
No signe of Springe wee knowe.

The Sunne which to the Earth
     Gives heate, light, and pleasure,             10 
Joyes in Spring hateth Dearth,
     Plenty makes his Treasure.
His heate to me is colde,
     His light all darknesse is,
     Since I am barrd of blisse,
I heate nor light behold.

A Shepherdesse thus said,
     Who was with griefe opprest,
For truest Love betrayd,
     Barrd her from quiet rest:                       20 
And weeping thus, said shee,
     My end approacheth neere,
     Now Willow must I weare,
My Fortune so will bee.

With Branches of this tree
     Ile dresse my haplesse head,
Which shall my witnesse bee,
     My hopes in Love are dead:
My cloathes imbroder'd all,
     Shall be with Garlands round,                30 
     Some scatter'd, others bound;
Some tyde, some like to fall.

The Barke my Booke shall bee,
     Where dayly I will write,
This tale of haples mee,
     True slave to Fortunes spite.
The roote shall be my bedd,
     Where nightly I will lye
     Wailing inconstancy,
Since all true love is dead.                           40 

And these Lines I will leave,
     If some such Lover come,
Who may them right conceive,
     and place them on my Tombe:
She who still constant lov'd
     Now dead with cruell care,
     Kill'd with unkind Dispaire,
     And change, her end heere prov'd.

Bee you all pleas'd, your pleasures grieve not me; 
     Doe you delight?  I envy not your joy: 
     Have you content?  contentment with you be; 
     Hope you for blisse?  hope still, and still enjoy. 

Let sad misfortune, haplesse me destroy, 
     Leave crosses to rule me, and still rule free: 
     While all delights their contraries imploy, 
     To keepe good backe, and I but torments see. 

Joyes are bereav'd me, harmes doe only tarry, 
     Despaire takes place, disdaine hath got the hand: 
     Yet firme love holds my senses in such band, 
     As (since despised) I with sorrow marry. 

Then if with griefe I now must coupled bee, 
Sorrow Ile wed; Despaire thus governes mee.

All Night I weepe, all Day I cry, Ay me,
I still doe wish, though yet deny, ay me:
I sigh, I mourne, I say that still,
I only am the store for ill, ay me.

In coldest hopes I freeze, yet burne, ay me,
From flames I strive to flye, yet turne, ay me:
From griefe I hast, but sorrowes hye,
And on my heart all woes doe lye, ay me.

From contraries I seeke to run, ay me,
But contraries I cannot shun, ay me:                          10 
For they delight their force to trye,
And to Despaire my thoughts doe tye, ay me.

Whither alasse then shall I goe, ay me,
When as Despaire all hopes outgoe, ay me:
If to the Forrest Cupid hies,
And my poore soule to his law tyes, ay me.

To the Court: O no, he cryes fye, ay me,
There no true love you shall espye, ay me:
Leave that place to falsest Lovers,
Your true love all truth discovers, ay me,                  20 

Then quiet rest, and no more prove, ay me,
All places are alike to Love, ay me:
And constant be in this begun,
Yet say, till Life with Love be done, Ay me.

Am I thus conquer'd?  have I lost the powers, 
     That to withstand which joyes to ruine me? 
     Must I bee still, while it my strength devoures, 
     And captive leads me prisoner bound, unfree? 

Love first shall leane mens fant'sies to them free, 
     Desire shall quench loves flames, Spring, hate sweet showers, 
     Love shall loose all his Darts, have sight, and see 
     His shame and wishings, hinder happy houres. 

Why should we not Loves purblinde charmes resist? 
     Must we be servile, doing what he list? 
     No, seeke some host to harbour thee:  I flye 

Thy Babish tricks, and freedome doe professe; 
     But O, my hurt makes my lost heart confesse: 
     I love, and must; so farewell liberty.

Come darkest Night, becomming sorrow best, 
     Light leave thy light, fit for a lightsome soule: 
     Darknesse doth truly sute with me opprest, 
     Whom absence power doth from mirth controule. 

The very trees with hanging heads condole 
     Sweet Summers parting, and of leaves distrest, 
     In dying colours make a grief-full role; 
     So much (alas) to sorrow are they prest. 

Thus of dead leaves, her farewell carpets made, 
     Their fall, their branches, all their mournings prove, 
     With leavelesse naked bodies, whose hues vade 
     From hopefull greene to wither in their love. 

If trees, and leaves for absence mourners be, 
No marvell that I grieve, who like want see.

When last I saw thee, I did not thee see, 
     It was thine Image which in my thoughts lay 
     So lively figur'd, as no times delay 
     Could suffer me in heart to parted be. 

And sleepe so favourable is to me, 
     As not to let thy lov'd remembrance stray: 
     Lest that I waking might have cause to say, 
     There was one minute found to forget thee. 

Then, since my faith is such, so kinde my sleepe, 
     That gladly thee presents into my thought, 
     And still true Lover-like thy face doth keepe, 
     So as some pleasure shadow-like is wrought. 

Pitty my loving, nay of conscience give 
Reward to me in whom thy selfe doth live.

Like to the Indians scorched with the Sunne, 
     The Sunne which they doe as their God adore: 
     So am I us'd by Love, for evermore 
     I worship him, lesse favours have I wonne. 

Better are they who thus to blacknesse run, 
     And so can onely whitenesse want deplore: 
     Then I who pale and white am with griefes store, 
     Nor can have hope, but to see hopes undone. 

Besides their sacrifice receiv'd in sight, 
     Of their chose Saint, mine hid as worthlesse rite, 
     Grant me to see where I my offerings give. 

Then let me weare the marke of Cupids might, 
     In heart, as they in skin of Phoebus light, 
     Not ceasing offerings to Love while I live.

Fie tedious Hope, why doe you still rebell? 
     Is it not yet enough you flatter'd me, 
     But cunningly you seeke to use a Spell 
     How to betray; must these your Trophees bee? 

I look'd from you farre sweeter fruite to see, 
     But blasted were your blossomes when they fell: 
     And those delights expected from hands free, 
     Wither'd and dead, and what seemd blisse proves hell. 

No Towne was won by a more plotted slight, 
     Then I by you, who may my fortune write, 
     In embers of that fire which ruin'd me: 

Thus Hope your falshood calls you to be tryde, 
     You'r loth, I see, the tryall to abide; 
     Prove true at last, and gaine your liberty.

Griefe, killing griefe, have not my torments beene 
     Already great and strong enough?  but still 
     Thou dost increase, nay glory in mine il, 
     And woes new past, afresh new woes begin? 

Am I the onely purchase thou canst win? 
     Was I ordain'd to give despaire her fill, 
     Or fittest I should mount misfortunes hill, 
     Who in the plaine of joy cannot live in? 

If it be so, Griefe come as welcome guest, 
     Since I must suffer for anothers rest; 
     Yet this (good Griefe) let me intreat of thee, 

Use still thy force, but not from those I love 
     Let me all paines and lasting torments prove; 
     So I misse these, lay all thy waights on me.

Flye hence, O Joy, no longer heere abide, 
     Too great thy pleasures are for my despaire 
     To looke on, losses now must prove my fare; 
     Who not long since on better foode relide. 

But foole, how oft had I Heav'ns changing spi'de 
     Before of mine owne fate I could have care: 
     Yet now past time I can too late beware, 
     When nothings left but sorrowes faster ty'de. 

While I enjoyd that Sunne, whose sight did lend 
     Me joy, I thought that day could have no end: 
     But soone a night came cloath'd in absence darke; 

Absence more sad, more bitter then is gall, 
     Or death, when on true Lovers it doth fall; 
     Whose fires of love, disdaine reasts poorer sparke

You blessed shades, which give me silent rest, 
     Witnes but this when death hath clos'd mine eyes, 
     And separated me from earthly tyes; 
     Being from hence to higher place adrest. 

How oft in you I have laine heere opprest? 
     And have my miseries in wofull cryes 
     Deliver'd forth, mounting up to the Skyes? 
     Yet helplesse, backe return'd to wound my brest. 

Which wounds did but strive how to breed more harm 
     To me, who can be cur'd by no one charme 
     But that of Love, which yet may me releeve; 

If not, let Death my former paines redeeme, 
     My trusty friends, my faith untouch'd, esteeme, 
     And witnesse I could love, who so could grieve.

How fast thou fliest, O Time, on Loves swift wings, 
     To hopes of joy, that flatters our desire: 
     Which to a Lover still contentment brings; 
     Yet when we should injoy, thou dost retire. 

Thou stay'st thy pace (false Time) from our desire 
     When to our ill thou hast'st with Eagles wings: 
     Slow only to make us see thy retire 
     Was for Despaire, and harme, which sorrow brings. 

O slake thy pace, and milder passe to Love, 
     Be like the Bee, whose wings she doth but use 
     To bring home profit; masters good to prove, 
     Laden, and weary, yet againe pursues. 

So lade thy selfe with hony of sweet joy, 
And do not me the Hive of Love destroy.

False Hope which feeds but to destroy and spill 
     What it first breeds, unnaturall to the birth 
     Of thine owne wombe, conceiving but to kill 
     And plenty gives to make the greater dearth. 

So Tyrants doe, who falsly ruling Earth, 
     Outwardly grace them, and with profits fill, 
     Advance those who appointed are to death; 
     To make their greater fall to please their will. 

Thus shadow they their wicked vile intent, 
     Colouring evill with a show of good: 
     While in faire showes their malice so is spent; 
     Hope kill's the heart, and Tyrants shed the blood. 

For Hope deluding brings us to the pride 
Of our desires the farther downe to slide.

How like a fire doth Love increase in me? 
     The longer that it lasts the stronger still; 
     The greater, purer, brighter; and doth fill 
     No eye with wonder more than hopes still bee. 

Bred in my breast, when fires of Love are free 
     To use that part to their best pleasing will, 
     And now unpossible it is to kill 
     The heate so great where Love his strength doth see. 

Mine eyes can scarce sustaine the flames, my heart 
     Doth trust in them my passions to impart, 
     And languishingly strive to shew my love. 

My breath not able is to breath least part 
     Of that increasing fuell of my smart; 
     Yet love I will, till I but ashes prove.