Lyke as the Culver on the bared bough
    Sits mourning for the absence of her mate:
    and in her songs sends many a wishfull vow,
    for his returne that seemes to linger late,
So I alone now left disconsolate,
    mourne to my selfe the absence of my love:
    and wandring here and there all desolate,
    seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove.
Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove
    can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight:
    whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
    in her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
    and dead my life that wants such lively blis.