Sonnet 44

HOw many times Nights silent Queen her face
Hath hid, how oft with Stars in silver Maske,
In Heavens great Hall, she hath begun her Taske,
And chear'd the waking Eye in lower Place?
How oft the Sun hath made by Heavens swift race
The happy Lover to forsake the Brest
Of his deare Lady, wishing in the West
His Golden Coach to run had larger space?
I ever count and tell since I alas
Did bid Farewell to my Hearts dearest Guest,
The Miles I number, and in mind I chase,
The flouds and Mountaines hold me from my rest.
But woe is me, long count and count may I,
Ere I see her whose absence makes me die.