Like 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 return that seems to linger late,

So I alone. now left, disconsolate, 
Mourne to my self the absence of my love:
And wandring here and there all desolate, 
Seeke with my Plaints to match that mournfull Dove.
Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove
Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight: 
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.

Darke is my day, whiles her faire light I mis.
And Dead my life that wants such lively blis.