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William Shakespeare (1564–1616).  The Oxford Shakespeare: Poems.  1914.

The Passionate Pilgrim, XIV.

“Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share”


GOOD night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share: 
She bade good night that kept my rest away; 
And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care, 
To descant on the doubts of my decay. 
  ‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again to-morrow:’         5
  Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow. 
  
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, 
In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether: 
’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile, 
’T may be, again to make me wander thither:  10
  ‘Wander,’ a word for shadows like myself, 
  As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf. 
  
Lord! how mine eyes throw gazes to the east; 
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise 
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.  15
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes, 
  While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, 
  And wish her lays were tuned like the lark; 
  
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, 
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night:  20
The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty; 
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight; 
  Sorrow chang’d to solace, solace mix’d with sorrow; 
  For why, she sigh’d and bade me come to-morrow. 
  
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;  25
But now are minutes added to the hours; 
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon; 
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers! 
  Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow: 
  Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.  30


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