 | Amoretti and Epithalamion |  |
LXXXVIII.
Lyke as the Culver, on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
And, in her songs, sends many a wishfull vow
For his returne that seemes to linger late:
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love;
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove.
Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove
Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis.
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
And, in her songs, sends many a wishfull vow
For his returne that seemes to linger late:
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourne to my selfe the absence of my love;
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove.
Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove
Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis.
| Amoretti and Epithalamion | |