William Shakespeare. 1564–1616

The Passionate Pilgrim, XIV.

“Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share”

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 to-morrow:’    5
  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 construe whether:  
’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile,  
’T may be, again to make me wander thither:   10
  ‘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.   15
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:   20
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 to-morrow.  
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;   25
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.   30