Coelum's fair daughter hath bereft my heart Of those sweet hopes to lovers only due; Unwilling she those pleasures to impart, Lest too much joy should make me cease to rue, Lest her fair eyes should work that gracious hap, Which she would not permit I should enjoy, While I lie lull'd in Fate's unconstant lap, With grief converse, and still with sorrow toy: For such a gentle pain she doth me send, As if she would not wish my life, nor end. |