Beleaguered with thee I haste me to sleep,
The sweet kingdom wherein I find my deepest bliss,
But then doth start a count of sheep,
Interrupted by bonny bait of your elusive kiss;
For that coy pleasure I would give treasures, alms,
Or a multitude of illustrious verses,
Present to you with Lover's palms,
Still you blight my day with cruelty, curses.
O Lord, save my soul from this dankest cage,
So I should not be a captive of unfruitful Loves,
So I should enjoy my youth and age,
In flight, like one of Peace's turtle doves.
In Love, alive, in Love's dearth, dead,
I curse the Beauty who doth command my head.