O! that noe day would ever more appeere,
Butt clowdy night to governe this sad place,
Nor light from heav'n thes haples rooms to grace
Since that light's shadow'd which my love holds deere;

Lett thickest mists in envy master heere,
And sunn-borne day for malice showe noe face,
Disdaining light wher Cupid, and the race
Of Lovers are dispisde, and shame shines cleere.

Lett mee bee darke, since bard of my chiefe light;
And wounding jealousie commands by might;
Butt stage play like disguised pleasures give;

To mee itt seems as ancient fictions make
The starrs all fashions, and all shapes partake
While in my thoughts true forme of love shall live.