O night, O jealous night, repugnant to my pleasures,
O night so long desired, yet cross to my content,
There's none but only thou that can perform my pleasures,
Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Thy beams, thy spiteful beams, thy lamps that burn too brightly,
Discover all my trains, and naked lay my drifts;
That night by night I hope, yet fail my purpose nightly,
Thy envious glaring gleam defeateth so my shifts.

Sweet night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till tomorrow,
Whose joys, in lack so long, a hell of torments breeds;
Sweet night, sweet gentle night, do not prolong my sorrow;
Desire is guide to me, and love no lodestar needs.

Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining,
Let them that miss the way be guided by the light;
I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining;
Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch awhile, hold in thy horns for shining,
And glad not louring night with thy too glorious rays;
But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining,
That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is wrought, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady,
All other nights and days in honour of that night,
That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady,
Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight.