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LYke as the
Culuer on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the
absence of her mate;
and in her songs sends many a
wishfull vew,
for his returne that seemes to linger
late.
So I alone now left disconsolate,
mourne
to my selfe the absence of my loue:
and wandring
here and there all desolate,
seek with my playnts to
match that mournful doue
Ne ioy of ought that vnder
heauen doth houe,
can comfort me, but her owne
ioyous sight:
whose sweet aspect both God and man
can moue,
in her vnspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
and
dead my life that wants such liuely blis.
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