The Passionate Pilgrim
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 the 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 mix'd with sorrow;
For why, she sighed 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 new borrow:
Short, night, to-night, and length thyself tomorrow.