Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share: She bade good night that kept my rest away; And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay. “Farewell,” quoth she, “and come again tomorrow:” Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow. Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I conster whether: ’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile, ’T may be, again to make me wander thither: “Wander,” a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf. 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 dreaming night. The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty; Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight; Sorrow chang’d 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, tonight, and length thyself tomorrow. XV It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see, Her fancy fell a-turning. Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight; To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite Unto the silly damsel! But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain, That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain, For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: Alas she could not help it! Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away: Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay; For now my song is ended. XVI On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen ’gan passage find, That the lover, sick to death, Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath: “Air,” quoth he, “thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alas, my hand hath sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet! Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.” XVII