A Nocturnal Lament

Alas! so all thinges nowe doe holde their peace:
Heauen and earth disturbed in nothing;
The beastes, the ayer, the birdes their song doe cease;
The nightes chare the starres aboute dothe bring.
Calme is the sea, the waues worke lesse and lesse;
So am not I, whom loue, alas! doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great encrease
Of my desires, whereat I wepe and syng,
In ioye and wo, as in a doubtful ease:
For my swete thoughtes sometyme doe pleasure bring,
But, by and by, the cause of my disease
Geues me a pang that inwardly dothe sting,
When that I thinke what griefe it is againe
To liue and lacke the thing should ridde my paine.