Classic Poem

Short is the day wherein
I doe not thinke of thee:
And in the night amid my sleepe,
thy face (deare dame) I see.
The dreame delights me much,
it cuts my care away:
Me thinkes I kisse and clip thee oft,
the rest I blush to say
Who happy then but I,
whilest sleepe and slumber last:
But who (alas) so much a wretch,
as I when sleepe is past
For with the sliding sleepe
away slips my delight:
Departing dreames doe driue away
thy countnance out of sight.
And then in place of glee,
in glydes a crew of care:
My panting hart laments, that I
do feele my bed so bare.
For thou that wert the cause
of comfort, art not there:
And I poore silly wofull man,
in sobs the night do weare
Then curse I cankred chance,
that made me dreame of thee,
And fansie fond, that fed it selfe
with dreames that fained bee
Thus weares away the night
consumde in carefull paine:
Those restlesse banners beating still
vpon my busie braine
Then drawes the dawning on,
I leaue my couch, and rise,
In hope to find some pleasant toy
that may content mine eyes.
But out alas, I can
not see so faire a sight,
That can my heauie hart releiue,
and daintie eies delight.
Each beautie that doth blaze,
each visage that I see,
Augments my care, in causing me
to long and looke for thee.
Thus waste I all the night
in dreames without desire:
Thus driue I on my dayes in loue,
that scalds like scorching fire.
Yet well content therewith,
so that, at my returne,
Thou pitie me, who for thy sake,
with Cupids coles do burne
I am the Turtle true,
that sits vpon the tree:
And waile my woe without a make,
and onely wish for thee.