XV. 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 tuned¹ like the lark²；

    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 changed to solace³, 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.

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