Ah bed the feeld where joyes peace some do see:
The feeld where al my thoughts to war be traind,
How is thy grace by my strange fortune staind?
How thy low shrowdes by my sighs stormed be?
With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest mee
To steale some rest, but wretch I am constrained.
Spurd with Loves spurr, this held and shortly rained
With Cares hard hand, to runne and tosse in thee,
While the black horrors of the silent night,
Paint Woes black face so lively in my sight,
That tedious leasure markes eache wrinckled line:
But when Aurora leades out Phœbus daunce
Mine eyes then only winke for spite perchaunce,
That wormes shou’d have their Sunne and I want mine.