Alas, so all things now do hold their peace, 
Heaven and earth disturbèd in no thing; 
The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease; 
The nightes car the stars about doth bring. 
Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less. 
So am not I, whom love, alas, doth wring, 
Bringing before my face the great increase 
Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing 
In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease. 
For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring, 
But by and by the cause of my disease 
Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting, 
When that I think what grief it is again 
To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.