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- # 1
Lord how mine eies throw gazes to the East,
My hart doth charge the watch, the morning rife
Doth fote each mouing fcence from idle reft,
Not daring truff the office of mine cies.
While Phalomela fits and finds, I fit and mark,
And with her layes were tuned like the larke.
For the doth welcome daylight with her ditte,
And drittes away darke dreaming night:
The night fo packt, I poff vnto my pretty,
Hart hath his hope, and eies thor withed fight,
Sortow changd to folace, and folace mixt with fortow,
For why, the fight, and bad me come to morrow.
C
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