¶Lord how mine eies throw gazes to the Ea
st,
195My hart doth charge the watch, the morning ri
se
¶Doth
scite each mouing
scence from idle re
st,
¶Not daring tru
st the office of mine eies.
¶_While Philomela
sits and
sings, I
sit and mark,
¶_And with her layes were tuned like the larke.
200For
she doth welcome daylight with her dittie,
¶And driues away darke dreaming night:
¶The night
so packt, I po
st vnto my pretty,
¶Hart hath his hope, and eies their wi
shed
sight,
¶_Sorrow changd to
solace, and
solace mixt with
sorrow,
205_For why,
she
sight, and bad me come to morrow.