Yet sighes, deare sighes, in deede true friends you are, That do not leave your least friend at the wurst: But as you with my brest I oft have nurst: So gratefull now you wait upon my care. Faint coward Joy, no longer tarrie dare, Seeing hope yeeld when this woe strake him first, Delight exclaims he is for my fault curst, Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware, Nay Sorrow comes with such mayne rage as hee, Kills his owne children, Teares, finding that they By Love were made apt to comfort with mee, Onely true sighes, you do not go away: Thank may you have for such thankfull part: Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart. Though with good cause thou lik’st so well the night. Since kind or chaunce gives both one libertie, Both sadly blacke, both blackly darkned be: Night bard from Sunne, thou from thine own Sunnes light Silence in both displaies his sullen might: Slowe Heavens in both do hold the one degree, That full of doubts, thou of perplexitie: Thy teares expresse nights native moysture right, In both a wofull solitarines: In night of Spirites the gastly power sturr, And in our sprites are Spirits gastlines: But but (alas) nights sights the ods hath fure, For that at length invites us to some rest, Thou though still tyr’d, yet still dost it detest. _Dian_ that faine would cheare her friend the Night, Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face, Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chace From heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight. But ah poore Night in love with _Phœbus_ light, And endlesly dispairing of his grace, Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place, Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight: Even so (alas) and Ladie _Dians_ peere, With choise delight and rarest company, Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere: But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee, Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joy While I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy. Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see: The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind, How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind? How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be? With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest mee To steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained. Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rained With Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee, While the black horrors of the silent night, Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight, That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line: But when _Aurora_ leades out _Phœbus_ daunce Mine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce, That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.