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Anon. [1599], The passionate pilgrime. By W. Shakespeare (Printed for W. Iaggard, and are to be sold by W. Leake [etc.], London) [word count] [S20122].

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[Poem XIV]
Good night, good rest, ah neither be my share,
She bad good night, that kept my rest away,
And daft me to a cabben hangde with care:
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
  Farewell (quoth she) and come againe to morrow
  Fare well I could not, for I supt with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorne or friendship, nill I conster whether:
'Tmay be she ioyd to ieast at my exile,
'Tmay be againe, to make me wander thither.
  Wander (a word) for shadowes like my selfe,
  As take the paine but cannot plucke the pelfe.

-- --

Lord how mine eies throw gazes to the East,
My hart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
Doth scite each mouing scence from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eies.
  While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
  And wish her layes were tuned like the larke.
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditte,
And driues away darke dreaming night:
The night so packt, I post vnto my pretty,
Hart hath his hope, and eies their wished sight,
  Sorrow changd 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 soone,
But now are minutes added to the houres.
To spite me now, ech minute seemes an houre,
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.
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Anon. [1599], The passionate pilgrime. By W. Shakespeare (Printed for W. Iaggard, and are to be sold by W. Leake [etc.], London) [word count] [S20122].