O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, When thou art all the better part of me?
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee?
But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Even for this let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of single one, That by this separation I may give That due to thee which thou deservest alone.
Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove, Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee and for myself no quiet find.
And that thou teachest how to make one twain, By praising him here who doth hence remain!