XIII
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud;
A brittle glass that’s broken presently:
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither’d on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemish’d once, for ever’s lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.
XIV
Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share:
She bade good night that kept my rest away;
And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
“Farewell,” quoth she, “and come again tomorrow:”
Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I conster whether:
’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile,
’T may be, again to make me wander thither:
“Wander,” a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
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 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, tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.