THE bird of Thrace, which doth bewail her rape
And murdered ITIS eaten by his Sire,
When she her woes in doleful tunes doth shape;
She sets her breast against a thorny briar.
Because care-charmer Sleep should not disturb
The tragic tale which to the night she tells;
She doth her rest and quietness thus curb,
Amongst the groves where secret silence dwells.
Even so I wake; and waking, wail all night.
CHLORIS' unkindness, slumbers doth expel.
I need not thorns, sweet sleep to put to flight.
Her cruelty, my golden rest doth quell:
That day and night to me are only one;
Consumed in woe, in tears, in sighs, and moan.