Dian that faine would cheare her friend the Night,
Doth shewe her oft at full her fairest face,
Bringing with her those starrie Nymphs, whose chace
From heavenly standing hurts eche mortall wight.
But ah poore Night in love with Phœbus light,
And endlesly dispairing of his grace,
Herselfe to shewe no other joy hath place,
Sylent and sad in moorning weeds doth dight:
Even so (alas) and Ladie Dians peere,
With choise delight and rarest company,
Would faine drive clouds from out my heavie cheere:
But woe is me, though joy her selfe were shee,
Shee could not shewe my blind braine waies of joy
While I dispaire my Sunnes light to enjoy.