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The Passionate Pilgrime.
143
For she doth welcome day-light with her ditte,
And drives away dark-dreaming night:
The night so packt, I post unto my pretty,
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight,
Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow,
For why, she sight, and bad me come to morrow.
And drives away dark-dreaming night:
The night so packt, I post unto my pretty,
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight,
Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow,
For why, she sight, and bad me come to morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon,
But now are minutes added to the houres.
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour,
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 thy selfe to morrow.
But now are minutes added to the houres.
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour,
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 thy selfe to morrow.
FINIS.
SON-
