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 dismal-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, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.