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American Shakespeare Center, Love's Labour's Lost. To Jun. 15, 2013.
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The Passionate Pilgrim (Octavo, 1599)

Author: William Shakespeare
Editor: Hardy M. Cook
Not Peer Reviewed
170BEauty is but a vaine and doubtfull good,
A shining glosse, that vadeth sodainly,
A flower that dies, when first it gins to bud,
A brittle glasse, that s broken presently.
A doubtfull good, a glosse, a glasse, a flower,
175Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an houre.
And as goods lost, are seld or neuer found,
As vaded glosse no rubbing will refresh:
As flowers dead, lie withered on the ground,
As broken glasse no symant can redresse.
180So beauty blemisht once, for euer lost,
In spite of phisicke, painting, paine and cost.
Good night, good rest, ah neither be my share,
She bad good night, that kept my rest away,
And daft me to a cabben hangde with care:
185To descant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewell (quoth she) and come againe to morrow
Fare well I could not, for I supt with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorne or friendship, nill I conster whether:
190'T may be she ioyd to ieast at my exile,
'T may be againe, to make me wander thither.
Wander (a word) for shadowes like my selfe,
As take the paine but cannot plucke the pelfe.
Lord how mine eies throw gazes to the East,
195My hart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
Doth scite each mouing scence from idle rest,
Not daring trust 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 post vnto my pretty,
Hart hath his hope, and eies their wished sight,
Sorrow changd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow,
205For why, she sight, and bad me come to morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soone,
But now are minutes added to the houres:
To spite me now, ech minute seemes an houre,
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers.
210Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow
Short night to night, and length thy selfe to morrow
IT was a Lordings daughter, the fairest one of three
That liked of her maister, as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eie could see,
215Her fancie fell a turning.
Long was the combat doubtfull, that loue with loue did fight
To leaue the maister louelesse, or kill the gallant knight,
To put in practise either, alas it was a spite
Vnto the silly damsell.
220But one must be refused, more mickle was the paine,
That nothing could be vsed, to turne them both to gaine,
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdaine,
Alas she could not helpe it.
Thus art with armes contending, was victor of the day,
225Which by a gift of learning, did beare the maid away,
Then lullaby the learned man hath got the Lady gay,
For now my song is ended.