But out alack, he was but one houre mine,
The region cloude hath mask'd him from me now.
  Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth,
  Suns of the world may staine, when heavens sun stayneth,
Why didst thou promise such a beautious day,
And make me travaile forth without my cloake,
To let base clouds oretake me in my way,
Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke.
Tis not enough that through the cloude thou breake,
To dry the raine on my storme-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speake,
That heales the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give phisicke to my griefe,
Though thou repent, yet I have still the losse,
Th'offenders sorrow lends but weake reliefe
To him that beares the strong offences losse.
  Ah but those teares are pearle which thy love sheeds,
  And they are rich, and ransome all ill deeds.
No more be greev'd at that which thou hast done,
Roses have thornes, and silver fountaines mud,
Clouds and eclipses staine both Moone and Sunne,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespas with compare,
My selfe corrupting salving thy amisse,
Excusing their sins more then their sins are:
For to thy sensuall fault I bring in sence,
Thy adverse partie is thy Advocate,
And gainst my selfe a lawfull plea commence,
Such civill war is in my love and hate,
  That I an accessary needs must be,
  To that sweet theefe which sourely robs from me.

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