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 dismal-dreaming night: The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty; Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight; Sorrow changed 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, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
