Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do fee:
Save that my foul's imaginary fight
Presents thy fhadow to my fightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghaftly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself no quiet find.
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppreffion is not eased by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppreff'd;
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee?
I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright
And doft him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the fwart-complexion'd night;
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my forrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem
When, in difgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends poffeff'd,
Defiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least ;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despifing,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arifing
From fullen earth, fings hymns at heaven's gate :
For thy fweet love rememb'red fuch wealth brings
That then I fcorn to change my state with kings.
When to the feffions of fweet filent thought
I fummon up remembrance of things past,
I figh the lack of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste :
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night;
And
weep afresh love's long fince cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd fight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The fad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All loffes are reftored and forrows end.
Thy bofom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have fuppofed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
many a holy and obfequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine éye,
As intereft of the dead, which now appear
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone :
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou, all they, haft all the all of me.
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